Twenty three years ago I did a monumentally heinous thing – I composed a hate poem for my mother. And gave it to her. ON MOTHER’S DAY. I have no idea what perceived injustice led to that explosive supernova of teenage angst, but I still involuntarily shudder every time I think of it.
It was an epic Shakespearean sonnet of rage, petulance and existential foot-stomping…
