Andy Richardson: Mother of all days should be celebrated

We get busy drooling over new cars, shooting the breeze on social media or engaging in other pointless pursuits when we could be doing stuff that's more important. We take for granted the ones we love when we ought to be offering tokens of affection.

So, tomorrow gives us chance to play catch up. The maternal love-in that is Mother's Day offers a gilt-edged opportunity to put things right. For one day we are reminded not to take the people we love for granted. We can offer the humblest and most gracious message of all: 'Mum, I love you. You rock'.

It's different for all, of course. For those whose mothers have departed this mortal coil, there's the time for quiet contemplation, flowers on headstones or a wistful look to the skies with a well-intentioned: 'I hope you're happy, wherever you are'. And for those who didn't know their mum or experienced a problematic childhood, there's a chance to look ahead and do the right thing by the next generation.

I'm lucky. My parents – along with my son – are the greatest gifts of my life. In an increasingly-fragmented society, I grew up in a household where everyone got on. And no, I'm not making that up, drawing a veil or spinning truths like a Moeen Ali off-break.

I'm as likely to lie or tell a tall story as Mary Berry is to bake a bad cake. I've no idea how. Truth is a blessing and a curse for introverts hard-wired like me. And besides, life is at its best and most remarkable – and sometimes its most painful – when we're honest.

My childhood was rare. Mum and dad became heroes and friends as well as parents. They championed their kids, gave them the richest and happiest of childhoods and put their families first when others might have been swayed to do otherwise.

They were, and still are, the ones who listen; the ones who understand; the ones who love unconditionally and protect. They counsel, take an interest and don't rush to maddeningly unrealistic or false judgements when presented with a good old cock'n'bull story. Lucky me. Lucky, lucky me.

Not that I'll be rushing to the florist first thing tomorrow. Nor will I be standing in line at the chocolate seller. Flowers are an every-fortnight thing, gifts an as-and-when. It's the same with conversations, which are daily or every-other-day. Expressions of affection and gratitude are as natural as breathing. Why wouldn't they be? Mums are great. So are women, come to that.

My own mother is remarkable. As strong and free-spirited a person as you're likely to meet, she is independent, joyous and gleeful. Creative and artistic, determined and resolute, her influence has been profound. Encouragement is her middle name. She is indefatigable and kind, thoughtful and warm.

Twenty years ago, I won an award in London for being good at something or other. And in front of 500 people in suits, I stood on a podium with two magnums of Champagne, a trophy and a decent-sized cheque and spoke into a microphone that was switched off; a kid-age Noel Gallagher saluting the room: 'This one's for my mum', I said.

There have been too many moments of happiness and too many highpoints to recall. A woman whose limitless joie de vivre and infectious spirit is matched only by my dad's love and devotion to her; the woman I call mum has been the acme of a good parent.

A period of ill health some time ago brought reflection. This music-loving man with 4,000 CDs sat alone in an empty room and was unable to listen to a single one. No mother meant no music. Life was empty. Temporary separation brought empty silence. Her return to improved health was like uncorking a bottle. Joy flowed.

So when tomorrow comes, I won't be rushing to the shops or making a special journey. I do all that stuff anyway. It's already a given. I'll just be grateful she's around, thankful that the ever-present in my life is loved and respected by all of her three kids.

It's not something I take for granted. Nor would I ever. Having great parents and a stable family is the exception, rather than the norm.

So tomorrow I'll simply be grateful that my North Star is still shining, still pointing the way.

And quietly, without fuss or fanfare, I'll find a way to share that with her. And I'll never find myself leaving it too late, wishing I'd said more or being too bashful and too shy to say the things I mean.

So happy Mother's Day, mum. Love you. And the same to women everywhere.