You don’t need to give her gold bangles, not silk, not flowers. You don’t need to write poetry or massage her feet. Just put a hand on her shoulder when she is least expecting it. Look at her in the eye when she is busy chopping vegetables. And she is happy like a child who has seen his first elephant. That’s the easy part. But keeping her happy, any woman happy - and it doesn’t matter if she is your mother or daughter or your Friday whore - that, my friend, is impossible. You can become a clown in a circus and learn to swallow real swords, but it won’t bring a smile to her face. There is a deep hidden well of sadness in every woman, as inevitable as a pair of ovaries, and on certain afternoons its mouth yawns open and it can suck in every colour in this world.