That’s your last one off in September? Me, too, St Andrews. I know, thanks, but it’s so far away. There’s Skype, of course, and I’ve made Abby promise to text me at eight every morning and then again at 11pm, with a list of everything she’s eaten, or I won’t be able to sleep, but the thought I won’t see her until Christmas, it’s almost like she did it deliberately, even if it is the only place you can do joint history of art and Mandarin with a year in Toronto. I keep thinking, what if there are smokers in her corridor, with her allergies? Or people who eat peanuts? Or what if she gets radicalised and goes to Syria and marries a jihadi and we never see her again?
They never stop being your baby, do they? So I thought I might surprise her after a couple of weeks, say we were passing through, make sure she’s not too stressed or thinking of getting a tattoo or something, then we could maybe meet one of her tutors to check she’s getting her essays in. Can you believe it’s only this time last year we were writing their personal statements?
It was tough enough without the other three, but the thought of four empty bedrooms and no piles of dirty washing, honestly, I’d give anything to do the school run just one more time. It’s like a bereavement, isn’t it, the way it hits you, every time you see the cuddlies and the violin exactly where they left them? I just keep sitting on her bed and howling.
Everyone says the thing to do is keep busy, that’s why I’m off to the dump. If we clear Abby’s junk and turn her room into an en suite, we could put the house on the market, trade down to a flat and buy a little place in France. Of course the kids are furious, but I keep telling them, tough, we’re actually not a free laundry-cum-storage facility. But young people can be so selfish, can’t they?
Do you want to see a picture of the puppy?
