The Teenager appeared in the kitchen this morning and informed me that he will be doing work experience in March.
Apparently his school, presumably in an effort to encourage a sense of responsibility and enthusiasm in their students, expect him to demonstrate his resourcefulness by getting on the phone himself and hunting down an opening that will further his career goals and set him on the road to wealth and happiness.
Since he was eating a yoghurt without the benefit of a spoon at the time, I became momentarily distracted by the pink goo on his nose and chin and somehow found myself agreeing to his proposal which is to work at Brantano because then, according to his mate Goody, he’ll get cheap trainers.
Now, for many years he has, from time to time, jokingly indicated that he intends to live with me for the rest of his life. To that end I have often, affectionately and may I stress, only in the spirit of comedy, replied that he’ll need to change his name to Morris and buy himself a wheelie shopping cart in order for that to work.
So it was that, at about twenty to eight this morning, Annabelle came upon me, motionless in the kitchen with the same look on my face that a turkey gets when it realises that it’s December 1st already.
Ripped from my waking nightmare, I belted upstairs, tripping over my dressing gown in my haste to ‘please God, make it that that didn’t just happen’ and burst into his lair only to find him rummaging through his dirty laundry basket in search of socks to wear.
After a lengthy discussion, which mainly involved me doing a great deal of weeping and begging and him doing a lot of picking his chin, I think we agreed to discuss things in an adult and mature fashion this evening.
I’m pretty sure however, that as I left his room that I heard him muttering something about Nazis but perhaps he was just registering his objections to the tyranny of the 1940’s, a school project that he is working on no doubt.
I’ll say one thing for Slasher-Cameron, with the increases in student tuition fees; at least I now have a plausible reason for why the heir to my estate will not be studying philosophy at Oxbridge come 2012.
Still, if his mate Goody is right, at least I’ll get cheap trainers.