Ever pressed the send button on an email and then instantly wished you could claw it back?

I wonder if Carolyn Bourne had any such regrets when she dispatched a stinging rebuke to her future daughter-in-law about her allegedly poor behaviour. Supposed to be correspondence a deux, the message went viral and put the role of the mother-in-law on the global agenda.

Mrs Bourne even gained the nickname ‘momzilla’ in US newspapers after she wrote to her stepson’s fiancée Heidi Withers, 28, to scold her about her ‘staggering uncouthness and lack of grace’.

There’s no doubt Carolyn Bourne’s toxic mix of spectacular character assassination and grinding ladette-to-lady advice fulfilled every Les Dawson stereotype. As an exercise in diplomacy it was up there with Prince Philip calling the Chinese slitty eyes.

But whilst I shuddered at Mrs Bourne’s venomous outburst (she told the bride-to-be: ‘no one gets married in a castle unless they own it. It is brash, celebrity style behaviour.’), I think the ongoing debate has been too quick to presume a mother-in-law is always an interfering witch who has trouble tattooed through her like the word Blackpool on a stick of rock. Or that she should be classified under the Dangerous Dogs Act.

Instead, I think it’s time to pause and consider how challenging some women may find this role.

Think about it. The only thing a mother-in-law has in common with the bride is the fact that they both love the groom. Seeing a son married is a happy occasion but it marks a seismic shift in her relationship with the boy. Essentially she is transferring her duty of care to another woman who will hopefully contribute to their enduring happiness as a couple. Though at the same time, she’s also probably dealing with a nostalgic sense of loss.

But if her son happens to bring home a girl who, when foisted on the family, is manifestly rude, and makes no attempt to show respect and courtesy to the house in which she is a guest, that surely must hurt like hell. If the bride is behaving like a petulant toddler before they’ve even unpacked the teasmade from Aunty Pam, what’s she going to be like when faced with real challenges? It places the mother-in-law, a hapless party in the unfolding drama, in an invidious position.

So what’s the answer? Well, since my eldest son is only 18, and fretting over impending

A-level results, the role of the mother-in-law is one I’m unlikely to tackle in the near future.

But having witnessed the warm, sweet and affectionate relationship my mum has with her own daughter-in-law I have a wonderful role model to hand. I asked mum for her secret. "see all and say nothing," she tells me. I think that should go for daughters-in-law as well.

Though perhaps ‘email in haste, repent at leisure’ might be worth remembering, too.

Weatherman’s a sun-sation

The outlook for BBC forecasters looks grim after criticisms were made this week about the flowery language and unnecessary details provided by the corporation’s weathermen.

Complaining to Radio 4’s Feedback programme, it seems that viewers want simple facts rather than cutesy comments about whether we’ll be able to light the barbecue. (I hate barbecues: all those cavemen wearing aprons emblazoned with faux bra and knickers. But I digress).

Back to the BBC and, frankly, I’m a bit confused by such criticism. The weather is unilaterally rubbish in this country. What more is there to say? Weather forecasting should exist for its entertainment value.

And there’s no better place to find it than Fred Talbot’s local forecasts on Granada.

Gloriously eccentric and brimming with more hyperactivity than a toddler on a full tank of orangeade, his broadcasts are must-see telly for anyone feeling swamped by low pressure. Altrincham-born Fred may well have his head in the clouds. But a couple of minutes in his company and you can’t help but feel sunny for the rest of the day. MediaCity bosses, take note.

Marc, your city needs you . . .

Denton-based management consultant Marc Gawley has just set a new world record – by visiting all 270 London Underground stations in the fastest-ever time: 16 hours, 29 minutes and 57 seconds.

Whenever I go to London for work, I loathe having to get the Tube. If I’m not being trodden on by grim-faced commuters, then I’m crammed into a carriage with my nose jammed in someone’s armpit as they cling onto the overhead bar.

By comparison, our Metrolink system is pleasant, inviting and much more civilised.

With Manchester just named as Britain’s fastest growing major city, that’s quite an achievement.

Check it out, Marc. Your city needs you.

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