Sunday is Mother's Day. It’s also a three-day weekend in honour of Whitsuntide. Each year, Swiss TV polls the man and woman in the street to ascertain whether he/she knows what Whitsuntide means. 99% of the polled invariably do not. Count me in. None of them seem to be averse to an extra day off work, though. This is one of the aspects of life in Switzerland that I love; the entrenched and unapologetic sense of cultural identity. The country has its roots in Christian tradition and culture - two of its UNESCO World Heritage Sites are monasteries - and whether I am a believer or not (not really) or agree with the tenets of the Christian faith or not (I do with most of them), I get the holiday. That’s what I call civilised.

Both Mother’s Day and Whitsuntide are pretty much non-events chez O, but the little man’s teacher - herself a boy-mother - ensures that we acknowledge the first befittingly: the little man brings me a card. Because Sunday is far, far distant, he presents it to me three days early.

It is red. He has drawn a Union Jack and a Swiss flag on the front, flanking a large white heart pierced by a wonky but sharp arrow.

Inside, there are several multicoloured hearts, both pierced and unpierced.

He has written, in fabulously creative German, the following:

Libe [sic] Mama

And I'll continue in English, because he surpasses himself:

You can make me spaghetti and then you can read the newspaper.

(Helpfully illustrated with drawings of a plate heaving with spaghetti and an open newspaper.)

Love,

[your adoring son]