Andy Richardson: Mother's Day

And she's told me time will heal the gravest wounds. She's celebrated my happiest moments then brought me back down to earth with the loudest thump.

I *heart* my mum. She's my north star, my Adagietto in Mahler's fifth, the rainbow that bursts through a grey sky. She's the vermillion sunset after the hardest day, the sparkle in a glass of Dom, the pastel shades at Monet's Giverny.

And on Sunday, the chances of me sending her a card, buying her flowers and giving her a copy of some schmaltzy compilation album are a big fat zero. Because I do that every week. Okay, not the card. Nor the schmaltzy CD, either. But flowers and compliments aren't predicated by dates in the diary. They're so commonplace that I think Tipton Asda probably bases its quarterly profit forecasts on the number of times I drive over to buy yet more cream-coloured lilies.

I don't do Big Fuss at Christmas, Boom Time on Birthdays and Mother's Love on Mother's Day. There's a simple reason for that: I don't need an excuse to tell my mum I love her, because I love her every day.

Very recently, I wrote a book for a hospice. It was one of the greatest creative gifts I've received. I'd spend long hours listening to people who were near the end of their lives. They'd look back happily at the things that had gone right in their lives and remember without bitterness or rancour the things they might have done better. The book – 20 Beds – became a story of life and hope. It was a tale of redemption.

One of my favourite ladies was a woman called Ann Kay. She radiated happiness. We got on as though we'd known one another all of our lives. Nothing was off limits. I laughed at her mistakes, marvelled at her successes and empathised where there was heartbreak. There were tears and jokes, new beginnings and happy endings.

For Ann, there was no hint of sorrow at what was just around the corner. She lived more vividly and expansively than anyone I had known, cramming every ounce of happiness into the time that remained. I asked Ann what she might have done differently, what she might have changed.

"Not much," she said. "Though I think I'd have probably told my mother and father how much I loved them a little more often." For Ann, everything else had fallen away. In the final analysis, only love remained.

I'm lucky. A loving, supportive family – with mum and dad at its axis – has been the central pillar of my life. It's been the greatest thing I've known and, as I know only too well, it's an aspect of life that is increasingly unusual. Happy families seldom exist, or so it seems.

So most days, I check in to see what they've been up to. I talk about my stuff (probably too much) and they listen, laugh and counsel. Then they put the phone down and probably think: "Blimey, his life's complicated. . . what's on telly. . . cup of tea?" They probably shake their heads, wisely, and know better than me that things are going to work out just fine.

Trying to think of my favourite 'mum story' is like trying to stop water flowing to the sea, trying to turn back time or trying to sit through an episode of X Factor without thinking it would be more fun to stick pins in my eyes.

But I'll pick one anyway. Actually, I won't. Because I can't think of a 'mum-defining' tale. I know that I've never been so happy as when I was a young kid, playing in the garden, while mum was at home. I know that she came from a school parents' evening when I was six and told me that my teacher thought I was a good writer – so planting a seed that continues to flower. I know that she looked ace on my (two) wedding days. And she'll probably look great on my third.

I know she dropped me on the face from a climbing frame – I still have the wonky nose to prove it; rescued me on the two occasions when I thought of doing something silly and has laughed more than any mother ought to at her youngest son's jokes.

Though, to be fair, they were all pretty funny.

But hey, what am I talking about. It's not me that's the lucky one. It's her. She's the one who's been able to enjoy 45 years of free-at-the-point-of-purchase brilliance, humour and joy.

So, Mother's Day is here. And I really don't care. Because every day is Mother's Day.

And I've never felt embarassed about saying this: Love you, mum.