Not quite household. Unless your household includes kids. Kids who are going to their first music festival.
Certainly disrupts the household, so I’m including it here.
It’s now after 2a.m.
All kids of various ages are in their beds. Hubs has been in his for hours. Gotta work, gotta sleep.
Me. I’m sitting with the last glass of a bottle of red wine wondering how in the hell I’m still sane.
Tomorrow, at early o’clock, child number five heads off for five days, four nights of a musical extravaganza known as T in The Park. Known as this because it once – many moons ago – took place in a park not too many miles from here and was sponsored by Tennents lager.
Now it has had so many changes of venue to accommodate the ever increasing number of young ones wishing to embrace their feeedom that no park can hold them. This year it’s T in Strathallan. I don’t know where exactly that is either so no sweat on your part.
Where it is doesn’t perturb me. What it is leaves me shivering somewhat.
Thousands of young people dying to embrace their inner hippy will converge on a swamp, in a tent, with alcohol, a few basic essentials. And sing and dance.
I’m good with the last two.
Basic, also, I can do.
Seventeen, on their comparitive lonesome, at a venue ideal for every criminal recidivist known, not so hot with.
Any evidence of that? None to speak of.
But imagination. Plenty of.
Lots of food.
Lots and lots of snacks and protein shakes and bagels and all sorts of shit guaranteed to sop up any and all amounts of alcohol.
She’s a good girl. She’s a sensible girl. But she’s seventeen.
And I have to keep reminding myself of being seventeen. Honestly. And with some credence for common sense.
Her baggage has more food than alcohol. I’m resisting the temptation to go and remove all traces of the offending liquid with a love note in its place saying, ‘Mum was here. Love you.’
But I haven’t. And I trust her.
It’s every other bastard under the sun I don’t trust.
I have closed my ears almost, and now nearly my eyes, to some of the stories, only this evening, being recounted to me by older kids laughing at the fun ahead.
I daren’t think. I don’t want to know.
Tomorrow, in about five hours, I’ll kiss her goodbye. On her return, all being well, and previous experience (plus now current knowledge) in place, I’ll be glad to see her home safe and sound. And I’ll listen to all her adventures. Even knowing they are, undoubtedly, censored.
I must have been a nightmare for my mum. Belated apologies, Mum. Hope you can hear me from here to heaven.
P.S. Does a big bag of Haribo count as food?
PPS. Why is seventeen that liminal age? Sweets or/and booze? Babe or woman? Don’t anyone say the two are synonymous. This might be my fifth time around but it doesn’t get any easier.