It’s Mother’s Day and, once again, I muse on how little some friends really know one. I never expect anything in a friendship that I can’t return – hence I do not look for loyalty or kindness – but the only area in which I am ceaselessly short-changed is in the business of being seen as one truly is. Michel Polac may have opined that ‘To be loved is to accept to be mistaken for who you are not’, but I like someone who sees me clearly. You can slander my reputation and I won’t turn a hair (I’ll probably put you on the payroll), but if you dare insinuate at this time of year that I must be feeling mis because of my dismal record on that front, I will immediately dismiss you as a sentimental half-wit with the perception of a pit-pony.
Because I’m keen on philanthropy and volunteering, some friends insist on telling me I am caring – ‘No, I was a coke fiend for thirty years and I need some way to make my hippocampus light up!’ I retort.
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