On Wednesday my eldest returned from school. "This is the last time you'll see me in uniform, Mum." The next day she took her her first GCSE. It's mufti from now on. An era ends. I was utterly choked. She is a brilliant and beautiful young woman, brimming with life and goodness. Yet I mourn the child she once was... An hour later, the bell rang. On the doorstep a glorious creature in a long dress coat and hat. My youngest. Who that morning had complained, "I've had the same disgusting anorak for four years." I gave her twenty pounds, "See what you can get in Primark." And there she was, like a Hardy Amies model. My baby had become a teenager. A double whammy in the space of an hour... Nostalgia has set the tone this week. On Thursday, the theatre. Attempts on Her Life. It was either totally brilliant or total crap. I had such a stiff neck from craning upwards at a suspended screen in a freezing auditorium, I lost my powers of judgment. Later, we hotfooted it to Canary Wharf. A farewell drink with knacker and co. I regaled a drunken detective with tales from my days on the local rag. Within seconds we'd established one degree of separation. His DI was the man who provided my first front page splash on The Stratford Express. Happy days. It struck me then that most days are happy days, even the ones that appear crap at the time. Indeed, the happiest months in recent years would read as crap if documented. Tonight, seven for dinner. Vegetable pie. Again. It's good for the constitution;-)
Saturday, March 31, 2007
On Wednesday my eldest returned from school. "This is the last time you'll see me in uniform, Mum." The next day she took her her first GCSE. It's mufti from now on. An era ends. I was utterly choked. She is a brilliant and beautiful young woman, brimming with life and goodness. Yet I mourn the child she once was... An hour later, the bell rang. On the doorstep a glorious creature in a long dress coat and hat. My youngest. Who that morning had complained, "I've had the same disgusting anorak for four years." I gave her twenty pounds, "See what you can get in Primark." And there she was, like a Hardy Amies model. My baby had become a teenager. A double whammy in the space of an hour... Nostalgia has set the tone this week. On Thursday, the theatre. Attempts on Her Life. It was either totally brilliant or total crap. I had such a stiff neck from craning upwards at a suspended screen in a freezing auditorium, I lost my powers of judgment. Later, we hotfooted it to Canary Wharf. A farewell drink with knacker and co. I regaled a drunken detective with tales from my days on the local rag. Within seconds we'd established one degree of separation. His DI was the man who provided my first front page splash on The Stratford Express. Happy days. It struck me then that most days are happy days, even the ones that appear crap at the time. Indeed, the happiest months in recent years would read as crap if documented. Tonight, seven for dinner. Vegetable pie. Again. It's good for the constitution;-)
