Mother, Mum, Momma, Mama, Mutter? Well, there’s room for goo there, isn’t there, lashings of it, a slow squelch through mawk and careless self-delusion, ten, twenty bows to convention and not one to truth. Do none of us recall the thoughtless lack of kindness, the solipsistic insistences that her life was of nothing but to...
Keep it coming by Francis Gerd
