My mum didn't give birth to me. I arrived conveniently on the door step six weeks after my illegitimate entrance into this world.
For thirty-eight years I gave her headaches, happiness, tears, laughter, worry and sadness, as only a child can do. All she took from it was love.
We had a great relationship. She was small, a bit feisty and we shared a love of 'off the wall' humour and daft conversations. The only thing we never agreed on was her unreasonable passion for football.
In 2002, she quickly followed my dad to the otherworld and made me an orphan. On her last day in this world we had a conversation that went something like this...
"You're going to sneak out the back door, aren't you?"
"Of course. I don't want you here when I go" she said.
"Don't argue, I'm your mum and I always will be."
"Now listen. You're a little shit, I love you, now bugger off."
She buggered off that night, and not long after I started writing. Funny the things that a localised apocalypse can bring.
(the roses above are called 'My Mum' - I have some in my garden)