Mother's Day
The phone rings mid-afternoon and I wearily pick it up expecting another call from the familiar voice of the tele-marketer who phones me every couple of days. The usual routine is that I say hello to silence, seconds later they come on the line and say hello half a dozen times against the background noise of a call centre. I remain silent. Eventually they hang up.
It's not what you would call a close relationship, but I do enjoy our little catch ups. It's as close to a water cooler moment as I get in the studio/front room. I imagine there's some sort of deranged startup that will artificially engineer these water cooler moments for solo homeworkers. Sorry to the tech bros planning their next WeWork investment disaster, but you can get this experience for absolutely free just by being a socially awkward weirdo in a rapacious capitalist society.
It's not a cold caller, but my dad asking how I am before quickly handing over to my mum. My father and I are both taciturn Yorkshiremen who have a shallow reserve of small talk. This is how we handle phone business.
My mum wants to know if I've ordered her flowers ahead of Mother's Day. This feels like a clear breach of Mother's Day protocol. A son worth their salt surely doesn't need reminding it's Mother's Day by their own mother. I confirm that yes, flowers have been ordered, trying not to sound like a sulky teenager being confronted over their inability to put a dirty coffee mug in the dishwasher. I hear a disappointed sigh on the other end of the line.
I don't make the point that I have ordered her flowers for Mother's Day for the last how-many years without fail as it doesn't make me sound as thoughtful as I'd like to think I am. It makes me sound like I have an automated system set up that takes care of this sort of thing without my input and e-mails me the receipt at the end of the month (get to work on this investment disaster, tech bros). I don't, by the way, mum, if you're reading this (she isn't). I go to a website and endure the grueling emotional labour of choosing the right bouquet to arrive on the Saturday so that there's still an opportunity for me to fix things for Mothering Sunday if the order is messed up. Almost as exhausting as giving birth, I tell ya.
Despite going to these extraordinary lengths I am informed by my mum that she won't be home that weekend as they are going away for a couple of days. I find this very inconsiderate in light of the amount of trouble I have taken. All I ask is that she stay at home waiting by the door for the van driver to arrive with her bouquet of flowers and then pretend to sound surprised and delighted when they are delivered. Followed by a photo of the blooms sent over WhatsApp if you please. That's not too much to ask, is it? What is Mother's Day about if not to make children feel as though they are the most caring and considerate little darlings on the planet?
I am certain the flowers will survive a day on the doorstep but my dad is dispatched to a neighbour where complex negotiations are entered into. I get a running commentary over the phone. Also news about the next door neighbours and their extensive renovations, something about astroturf and then my dad is coming back with the neighbour. My dad is pointing at something, but mum can't see what. Then there's news of the leak in the conservatory and what sounds like some ham-fisted attempts at DIY. Then she can't stay on the line, she has to go and see what all the pointing is about.
I put the phone down, my head swimming. My parents lead a much more eventful life than I do. They should write a newsletter.
Later, on Mothering Sunday, I find myself in a gallery with a small exhibition of renaissance art. The painter's style is notable for its long tapering fingers, carefully rendered fruit and depictions of a beautific baby Jesus who will never have to order flowers over the internet for his mum.
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I'm back. The rumours aren't true. I wasn't lost up a mountain in Wales. I have been busy working on pages for my next middle-grade book, Punycorn. Now that I am about to hand them in I can breathe a little bit and write the occasional newsletter like this one. Here's a sneak peek at one of the pages. The finished book will have words and colour.
In other news, I am excited to be a guest at this year's LICAF. It'll be my first time attending and I am very much looking forward to it. As I type, this is my only UK festival appearance. Please do feel free to invite me places.
Paris, the fairy tale romance beautifully drawn by Simon Gane and written by me is coming out from Image comics in May. The handsome hardcover will feature twenty new pages of art and extras from Simon. Please navigate the arcane pre-order process if you can (Previews code JAN220156) to avoid supply chain/paper shortage disappointment.
Order from the fine folk at OK Comics and you get an exclusive bookplate signed by Simon and me.
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I have books out in the world, Kerry and the Knight of the Forest & the awards nominated The Book Tour. Support my efforts through my store – digital comics – patreon or by leaving a positive review online.