Mother thinks I’m Joey Tribbiani

I wriggle my fingers into black leather driving gloves and take a plate of scrambled eggs and smoked salmon upstairs. It’s Mother’s birthday and I’m taking her breakfast in bed as a surprise treat. I knock on the door. There’s no answer. ‘Room service,’ I shout. I lean forward and knock again. I don’t usuallyContinue reading “Mother thinks I’m Joey Tribbiani”