From the time I was about 15 until the year that I left home, my mother and I fought out the emotional equivalent of World War III. Any conversations which we had at that time quickly degenerated into yelling contests, followed by slamming of doors and lots of tears.

When my idiotic short marriage dissolved, I turned to my mother in desperation, and immediately she was there, reassuring me, comforting me, holding and stroking me during hour-long sessions of uncontrollable crying.

I still think that she's kind of crazy, and she now has taken up the habit of reminding me that I'm not getting any younger, that I shouldn't leave it much longer if I'm going to have a family etc etc - having one daughter who is happily married with her own kids (my older sister Liz) may not help her concerns for me. In spite of some tense long-distance 'phone calls and some awful family Christmas dinners back in Melbourne, I love her and I am secure in knowing that she loves me.

Thanks mum.