I knew Sundays would be the worst

I knew Sundays would be the worst.

Most Sundays, Mummy and I would settle down with a cigarette and a cup of coffee and have a long natter on the phone. We'd talk about anything and everything - what I'd been up to recently at work, the state of my mother's garden, how we felt generally, current political shenanigans, the weather - you name it, it probably found its way into our conversation at some point. Some weekends, when I was tired, or when I was struggling to get some work done over the weekend, I'd feel irritated because I didn't feel I had the time to spend a couple of hours on the phone. And that wasn't fair because my mother was always up front about it being OK to say I didn't have time to chat. What I actually felt was a mixture of annoyance at myself for putting something like work before my own and my mother's enjoyment, and guilt at putting my work before my mother. I really enjoyed and looked forward to our chats.

I get on well with most people, and regard a small group of people as my friends, but I've always found it difficult to maintain long-term friendships. My best friends are my partner Chris, my mother and my sisters. And since I grew to adulthood (or some vague approximation of that state), my mother has been the best friend most people find in their own age group. She's been there for me - the person I could confide in, say stupid things to, confess my faults to, and laugh with. And she gifted me with the same depth of friendship in return. I admired her and was proud of her as a person in her own right, and she was proud of me too.

And today I miss her so much. It hurts like hell knowing that she's not there any more, and won't ever be there again to laugh with me, and cry with me, and just talk about whether it looks like raining or not.