Mothers are funny. They like pictures of their children. They also like pictures of complete strangers that happen to look like their children.
After Mother-of-witch died, I had some clearing out to do. Among the weirdest things I found, was a health type magazine with a photo of myself on a bicycle. For those who know me, this will sound very unlikely. I don’t think I had posed with a bike since about the age of eleven. But whoever the cyclist was, she looked just like me. And that must be why the magazine article was saved.
When Daughter was about four, my friend came round some time in December. She looked at our Christmas tree and wondered why I had Daughter as an angel, hanging from a branch. When I looked more closely, I realised the angel was the spitting image of Daughter. I think she came from Ikea.
Round about the time I knew Son would be going to Edinburgh, I came across his (almost) photo as an award winning bookshop manager in that beautiful city. I took that as a sign, and ordered Son to seek part time employment in this charming looking manager’s shop. Teenagers are slow, even when they look nice, but this week he started work there.
And none of this makes any sense whatsoever. I know. But it’s warm, and none of you will read this anyway, because you’re all sitting on a beach somewhere.