Just Buy The Damn Flowers

Mothering Sunday today, at least in Britain, which like most celebrations has filled me full of rage. More specifically, those whining about it have. You know the arguments, used each year to justify being too mean to fork out ten quid for a bunch of flowers. "It's an artificial holiday." As opposed to other festivals, I suppose, which are organic creations and natural products of our DNA. And of course: "It was just invented by the card manufacturers."

It's remarkable the level of power often credited to card manufacturers. To some they play the same role others give to Zionist conspirators or liberal media barons or, in David Icke's case, giant extra-terrestrial lizards. A shadowy cabal who can bring down presidents and kings. This despite their lack of all the standard mechanisms of power. There are, to my knowledge, no ancient clubs for gentleman card manufacturers nestled within London's Square Mile, no lobbyists for their firms striding through the corridors of the White House. Yet they apparently control our thoughts and deeds and, most importantly, spending habits.

Actually Mother's Day began long before Hallmark and the others fixed their iron grip on the world. An old Greek festival was turned by the Romans into a day honouring Cybele, Mother of the Gods, which was held on the Ides of March. The Christians appropriated this, just as they transformed Saturnalia into Christmas, fixing it to the extensive Lent rituals. By the 1600's in England Mother's Day was the one time of the year when young domestic servants were allowed home to visit their parents. They customarily brought gifts. But it would have been a holiday for the whole family, divided the rest of the year by the power of economics.

One might argue that this has little relevance for modern Britain. (Though any rich families with Sudanese or Filipino maids locked in the attic might consider letting them out for the weekend). Neither does Guy Fawkes Night, however, and there seems to be far less complaints about that. If we can celebrate the disembowling of a seventeenth century terrorist, surely we can commemorate what was a tiny oasis of compassion in a generally awful society. Oh, and I gather that it really, really hurts our mothers to squeeze us out of their wombs. That deserves a few flowers at least.