Keep it coming by Francis Gerd

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...