I just HAVE to tell you. Boy came of age this weekend. He moved out. Up. On with his life.
He’s gone to work in London.
You may think I’m bragging, that my maternal chest is puffed with pride, and you’d be damned right. But I felt it only correct to update you, seeing as every cough and spit of that poor kid’s life has been proffered up for public consumption for a quarter of a century. I’ve mercilessly exploited him since before he was born (I was “requested” to write about my experience of pregnancy, got into my stride and realised my offspring would make excellent column fodder evermore).
Our modern day Dick Whittington carried his worldly possessions in his black-windowed pimp-mobile (it’s impossible to get a flat-screen TV and the entire menswear section at TK Maxx into a hanky on a stick).
And I was absolutely fine about it. Bursting with mother’s pride about it. He was finally doing what he’d said he was going to do, first at 18, then a year ago when he moved back in “just for a few months to get his head together”. He was moving to the paved-gold epicentre of the universe (he hasn’t been to NYC yet) to forge his future. Doing what I didn’t have the bottle to do 30 years ago.
I packed up that car, told him we and our bank accounts were just the press of a button away should an emergency arise, and merrily waved him off.
Then it got to Sunday and the house suddenly seemed achingly quiet. I expected it to be him bouncing in every time the Swiss cowbell on our front door clanged (we put it up a few months ago and thought it sounded like the door to Arkwright’s shop until Downton came back and we realised it rings exactly like the below-stairs servant bell).
Only, of course it won’t be him ‘til Christmas Eve and, in a scene from It’s A Wonderful Life (via the GBBO) he arrives with a dusting of snow on his overcoat and a stash of glitzy presents from Harrods in his arms as I, in a pinny and a fine misting of self-raising, rush to wrap him into a baking-scented hug. But that’s six weeks away. Too long.
I know there ARE benefits to us being the gruesome twosome again (which, to be fair, is what Bloke thought he’d signed up for). No morning fight for the first shower. No need to hide all the things we don’t want devoured within an hour of hitting the fridge. Heck, we can walk around stark-naked if we want to. But part of me is missing now. It’s gone to the capital with my London Lad.