The Mother of All Gifts

Ahhh Mother’s Day. The great bastion of guilt and bad gifts. Of Mothers, Mother in Laws & Step Mothers.
My postbox is stuffed with pink brochures suggesting everything for gifts. Including the BP Petrol Gift Card and a safetly alert system for when your mum falls over and cannot get up.
See my son J? He is wearing the gift he has got me – a necklace with ballet shoes dangling from it. He says he is borrowing it from me. H will have probably made something at school which he will leave on the bus – like last year.
So a note to Mr Woog and the Woogettes.
I would like breakfast and coffee in bed at 9am with delivery of the papers.
I would like a day of no kids fighting near me.
I would like a day of no sex-nagging.
I would like to hear the sound of the Mazda being loaded up at about 9.30 and driven up the road for at least 2 hours. Destination? Do not care.
I want to be basically be left alone (unless I choose) till about 6pm when you can present me with a bottle of Cloudy Bay – chilled, with one glass.
And at 7pm you may bring me a pizza and a dvd. And a kiss on the cheek. Then leave silently.
PS If you are stuck for an idea and do not have a wine/pizza/dvd fantasy going on, this is a brilliant gift and the one that my mum will be getting.