An amazing woman
Everyone's mum is unique; mine was even more so. I was the oldest of four boys born at intervals of 15 months. While we growing up we took it for granted that all mums could play the piano, speak French, and teach small boys to cook iron and hoover. And fight.
I cam home from school having been bullied and we spent an hour with me throwing punches at her until she reckoned I could hit straight. I was sent off the following morning with the instruction to throw the SECOND punch, and if he got up, I'd have let her down.

First and last bloke I ever hit. I was seven. That was 43 years ago.

When she was 69 she got her degree, a First in Arts from the OU. If my old man hadn't fallen ill she'd have taken her Master's.

She died in 2008, and her funeral was standing room only.

Length? It's never long enough.
(all my scars face forward possesses 2.5% of a hyperalloy combat chassis, Fri 12 Feb 2010, 20:28, 1 reply)

My mum never taught me how to cook iron. You lucky bugger.
(Haywood Manley, Sat 13 Feb 2010, 19:04, closed)