Is it just me or has this year gone really, really fast?
Last night, in the aftermath of ‘The Savaging’ – I was busy trying to scrape sticky, disgusting, gross pumpkin intestines off of the walls, units and floor of the kitchen when I got to thinking, (I’m sure it’s the same for forensic scientists in the wake of a serial killer, you know, guts, gore and pulp, your mind wanders).
The Teenager has moved out and is at college, in his spare time he is studying hard and has a part time job.
No, no. That’s not right. He was supposed to move out to go to college where he should have been studying hard and industriously beavering away at his part time job, but, tragically but it didn’t quite pan out that way.
On movin’ day, he relieved me of £100 for school supplies (and that), packed up his old kit bag and in an exit worthy of Scarlett O’Hara, set off into his glowing future.
My heaving, Kleenex-clutching sobs mysteriously subsided as the front door clicked closed, whereupon I spent the next hour drinking Parrot Bay frozen Berry Daiquiris out of the freezer, dancing to the Nolan sisters, and ecstatically waving my arms around whilst periodically screeching ‘one down, one to go’.
Two hours and thirty-five minutes later he was back.
Apparently the room was too small for his track suits, the delicacies he had observed in the kitchen cupboards during the initial viewing of what had turned out to be (with the benefit of daylight) ‘a mud hut in the middle of Helmand Province’- belonged to other people and he had been allotted some empty shelf that he ‘was responsible for filling himself’ (insert outraged teenage face here).
Seriously considering taking his place in Helmand Province myself, I sloped back to the sitting room and began hiding empty Parrot Bay packages before I got busted for not having been, as he may have been led to believe, lying, prostrate with grief, flicking through his baby photo albums for the last two hours and thirty-five minutes.
Annabelle, who had been plotting for weeks to take over ‘the big bedroom’ returned home from school to discover that her ‘where shall I put my dressing table’ blueprints were no longer required and, much like myself, was forced to shelve her dreams of freedom and the odd fun-filled sleepover (different agenda for my sleep-overs but I’m sure you get the picture).
That noise you can hear is the sound of the cracking ice upon which I stand.
A whole new parenting challenge has presented itself, please someone tell me, how do you get rid of them?