A mother's love, a mother's love, there's nothing like a mother's love.

A mother’s love, a mother’s love, there’s nothing like a mother’s love. This “fact” was brought home to me good and proper while staying in my son’s Sheffield flat. I was cleaning and wiping and swiping at all the dirt and microbes and the dirt and the microbes were doing the equivalent to me which for dirt and microbes is to avoid disappearing. I was getting considerably sweaty in all the appropriate parts despite the English summer being very English, that is 15 degrees Celsius with a nor’nor’easterly and thunder clouds and abysmal grey and window panes painfully streaking — rain, that is, not bare bums. (Window panes are modest despite often wearing see-thrus). I was doing the rounds as I say when lo and behold! I was arrested in my stride. I stood there flabbergasted. A weak and wilting plant stood before me, on the musical instrument which is a hybrid between a pianoforte, an electric organ, an uptight piano-accordion, gifted to my wayward son by a Japanese M.A. graduate, fled these windy and wuthering heights for the infinitely preferable Tokyo metro at seven-forty-five a.m. on a Monday morning.

      This musical instrument is in dire straits here, snowed under by dust, dirt and a dying or dead plant. I moved said dead plant and later in the day found lots of its earth scattered near my son’s feet.

      “So how did it get here?”

     “Mum,” he replied, as if that three-letter word carried all the explanation necessary.

      “It’s dead. Can I throw it out?”


      “How did the earth jump out and get near your feet?”

      “Can’t you see I’m working?”

      Ah, a mother’s love, a mother’s love, for who but a mother would think to gift this little, abysmal flat with a lusty plant now kaput? This big, marvellous son with a lusty plant he cares nought for, double nought, for?

      I threw it away and cleaned the vase and swiped the earth and wiped and worried that surface as only a cleaner with my capabilities knows how! Now it’s all bright and even a surgeon could operate there. Could he not operate on a mother’s love, redimension the malaise, or will these monomaniacs (mums) always be going to visit their prisoners, giving kisses and love and tears and gifts to murderers?

     “Ah, Bartleby! Ah, humanity!”

      Ah, mothers!

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