Mothering Sunday, eh?

Mothering Sunday, eh?

Well, she never liked me and made no secret of it.  And she’ll be deid ten years come May but she was my auld Irish mammy.  Just someone (like her only son) who made some fucking awful choices in life.

Her biggest mistake was refusing to acknowledge my wife.  She didn’t approve and refused to meet her even though they lived in the same town for 16 years before my Mum died.  She wouldn’t meet her which, naturally, meant she became even more estranged from me.  Although after she had a near death experience I did my best by her.  Which wisnae very much because Linda was my reason for being.

I might have preferred it if she’d pretended to like me as a boy but she was quite unequivocal about it.  She gleefully told me how she worked three waitressing jobs in greasy spoons at Tollcross / Haymarket so she could send me to nursery school when I was 18 months old.  Then when I was 4 she handed me over to my Great Auntie Euphemia, auld Mrs McLuskey and my evil Gran.  They took turn aboot feeding and watering me until I was 9.  Then I was deemed old enough to have a front door key and to be able to look after myself.

Granted, she was a bitter women whose charmed life ended when her own Mother dropped deid on a church outing to Ayr.  And having lost one bairn and been told she couldn’t have any more my arrival certainly got in the road.

Regardless, it’s Mothering Sunday so here’s some pictures from when she still led that charmed life.  Aka before me and my Dad.

Top, left to right;
At home in Pennywell, her favourite picture of herself and a couple of party frocks.

Bottom, left to right
Another party frock and (third from right) my Mum in her WAAF days with a group of friends.

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