T’WAS gone noon when one was awakened to the sound of the kettle being filled and the aroma of bacon filling the air.

Lying in the scratcher at twelve on a Sunday, is the norm for me and anyone else with older children. When I say older – I mean children who know not to stick a knife in the toaster and know to leave a sleeping Mummy alone.

The skinhead came up to wake the emo, she too was asleep. They descended the stairs and set to work.

From now on, my long suffering husband and child will be referred to as the skinhead and the emo.  For these reasons – AA Gill had the blonde, Squinter has the brunette and I had the comb-over until I threatened to leave him.  It also makes me sound like I have a big scary man who’ll back me up when out and about.

The skinhead has been reared well. He can cook, he cleans when I throw a big enough skitzo attack and he makes a fuss of me when I’m unwell, when it’s my birthday and Mother’s Day.

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They presented me with a bacon buttie and a cup of my favourite percolated coffee. The three of us sat on the bed and talked with our mouths full. The bedroom was a mess, crumbs were cutting the arse off me but I’ve never been happier. The two loves of my life never fail to set me up for the day.

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You see, my bestie and I were taking a day off mothering to get blind drunk and talk about nothing else except mothering.

The intention was to go out coiffed and preened like Cinderella, to enjoy a three course meal and somehow return home looking like a homeless alcoholic. I was successful in my endeavours. She took it easy because she had two babies to get up with the next morning. Shitty nappies and hangovers are the work of the devil as I recall.

We’ve never went out together on Mother’s Day but made the exception this year. She’s had a rough time of it and we needed a break.

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But that didn’t stop the presumptuous anti-woman brigade giving off about mothers going out for the day. Usually they are bitter men who lack the balls to deal with ups and downs in a relationship, so slabber about mothers any chance they can get. They hate to see us looking well and having the audacity to have fun.

But to give the haters their dues – some women have given the road a bad name when it comes to Mother’s Day.

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We have to admit that some of us are a nightmare with the drink. One year I saw a woman putting a feg out in a doorman’s ear.

It’s been renamed ‘Murder’s Day’ and ‘Black Eye Monday’ when we apparently turn up to the school gates with black eyes after beating the tripe out of each other after drinking all day.

But this year, it was really quiet. I was in three bars and witnessed no fighting. The door staff and taxi men I spoke to said it was the quietest Mother’s Day they’ve worked.

The next day I’d convinced myself I was brain dead. The pain was wounded horse material.  In my previous drunken state, I’d forgotten to bring a pint of water to bed.  I was literally dying of drewth.  To make matters worse, there was no kettle being filled, no smell of bacon. It seems that self inflicted illnesses aren’t covered in the marital contract.

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