Me (just over a week in advance, knowing that if I want Mother's Day to happen I will need to drop some large hints in Stephen's direction): It's Mother's Day on Sunday.
Stephen (tapping his BlackBerry adoringly): Oh, right.
Me: Are we going to do anything?
Stephen: What, now?
Me: No, on Mother's Day.
Stephen: I don't know. When is it?
Me: Sunday.
Days pass with no further reference to the topic, during which I order flowers to be delivered to Queen Victoria (Stephen's mother). I did wonder whether to book a restaurant myself, in order to make Stephen's life easier, but decide I've done enough.
To cut a long, no-tables-till-half-three-bloody-hell-I-didn't-send-my-mum-anything story short, we ended up eating half-frozen sausages that Stephen threw onto the barbeque in the rain (it's a gas barbeque) and all dying of salmonella.
At the pearly gates I asked Stephen why he hadn't done anything at all about Mother's Day.
'Well,' he said in injured tones, 'you're not my mother.'
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