Punctuate the mother!

IF I were a mother, and English, I would be ashamed of most of my children. Honestly, when will they ever learn it is Mother’s Day and not Mothers Day?

Everywhere I go I see special offer signs. The butcher, the pub-owner, the postman, the mechanic, the gas man, the garbage man, everyone’s got a deal for Mother. And everyone seems to have more than one mother, bar W H Smith and a few other worthies who I am sure hired a professional proof-reader.

For fucks –- I mean, fuck’s -- sake, get that apostrophe in.

She's lucky, oh she is

NOT in two years, not since I stepped away from a minefield called Kashmir, have I been so moved as I was last evening.

A handful of talented people, dressed in white, did that with their road-show, Beyond Belief.

They made a Gaza Strip of my mind. Brought to life, on a cramped podium, a conflict we all know about but don’t know about.

They didn’t tell me about Ariel Sharon and Ismail Haniya. They told me, instead, of Hasan and Noura and Rachel and Basma.

They told me about the girl who is lucky because she lost only one eye and the boy whom the soldiers shot in self-defence.

They made me angry, upset, hurt. Wince, cringe. Think.

Do watch, all, if you ever get a chance. It’s live multi-media communication, powerful and poignant.

It’s about people like you and me.