One morning last week, I was leisurely sipping on my bowl-sized coffee cup, contemplating another thrilling day at work.
All was well with the world. Sort of.
Until.
”Mum, mum, mum, MUM, MUM, MUUUUUUUUUUUUM’.
The Teenager tornadoed into the kitchen, waving his mobile.
‘Huh?’
‘You know you, like, love me, you know I’m your amazing, like, adoring son, and you want the best for me and you want to make me happy and I would be really, really happy if you …’
I put my coffee cup down.
‘Huh?’
‘S’like, ah, sooooo ‘citing. Reading!’
‘Reading?’ (at last, The Teenager has inherited my love of books, the joy).
‘Yeah, no, Reading, not reading, d’uh, that’s, like, books. Reading! Can I go, can I go, can I go, can I go? Please, please, purleeeeeze?’
Ah.
That Reading.
The mud-fest music extravaganza, on a par with Glastonbury. I saw tents, mountains of beer, debauchery.
I gathered my thoughts, put down my cup and tried to look serious.
‘Well. Um. Really? We’ll see.’ (standard parent answer).
‘Nooooooooo, all my friends are going, I’m looking for a tent on Gumtree, there’s a payment instalment plan, the Chilli Peppers have confirmed, I will just, like, die, if I don’t go.’
Hmm. This was serious stuff. What could I do?
Reader, I booked his ticket. I gave him a lecture about drugs, alcohol and washing properly. I told him not to body-surf across the crowds (risk of neck injury, gah). He screen-shotted the booking page as he hovered over my shoulder and Facebooked his friends.
I pushed down my rising panic. How have we come to this? Not so long ago he was desperate to see Bob the Builder and Friends live on stage and was happy to take home a helium Bob balloon.
As he hugged me when the booking was complete, he asked me to google trolleys.
‘Huh? What for?’
‘Like, d’uh. To cart all the beer for the weekend. It’s going to be EPIC.’