JUST to remind you, in case you hadn’t noticed all the heavy hints on television, it is Mother’s Day on Sunday.

This started in America – where else? – more than 100 years ago, when a woman called Anna Jarvis held a memorial for her mum and then, not satisfied with her own small family triumph, campaigned to impose it on everybody else, much to the delight of retail merchants worldwide.

Whey, hey, it’s Mother's Day. Perfect for selling anything that can be loosely connected with the state of motherhood.

Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against mothers. I had one myself once and my wife Maria is both a mother and grandmother. I freely acknowledge that all mothers do a wonderful job.

What annoys me is the commercialisation that enters any occasion – Christmas, birthdays, Valentine days, mothers days, fathers days, Uncle Herbert days, my pet dog days, stay in bed days and holy days of obligation.

Anything that started out innocently is now layered in compulsory expense – if you don’t buy at least a card you’re a mean spirited Scrooge who deserves to burn in hell fire for eternity.

Days were when children were happy with an orange, a new penny, a small bag of nuts and crack round the ear at Christmas. Try getting away with that now? The little blighters will have social services onto you.

Days were when we didn’t need a mother’s day that entails a bunch of daffodils, a gift wrapped bottle of lavender water, a meal out at the pub, a soppy card and all the trimmings.

In actual fact, we still don’t.

Most mothers would probably far more appreciate a cuddle and being told: “Love you, mum.”

Up close and personal like that, makes all the difference.

And, go on then, maybe the meal out as well.