Mam wrote me a poem for my birthday:

To a very special daughter who is very dear to me,
I wish her health and happiness and all she aspires to be.
She's often very cross with me for my offending ways,
Her rebukes do not upset me and seldom do amaze.
She knows I'm old and wizened and compliments don't fly,
But that's the way we act and here's the reason why:
There's a bond which is unbroken whatever may befall,
May this practice flourish, 'til the reaper comes to call.

With love on your 53rd birthday, Mother xx

She's a poet and you never knew it! The talent for poetry is obviously genetic.

Doris Day didn't get a card from her and I'm actually 35.