“Stop fussing, Mum – it’s just a little day out to Manchester.”
“No it’s not. It’s an interview. You have to make a good impression. Do you have your railcard?”
“Of course. What do you think I am?”
I think you’re the person who, last week, had to pay full fare to London because you forgot your railcard. I manage not to say so.
But then I notice,
“You’re wearing yesterday’s shirt!”
“Yep. That was why, when you were asking me if my shirt needed ironing, I knew it wouldn’t.”
Zip it. Say nothing. Do not upset Perran before his interview.
We live over a mile from the station; Perran’s train leaves in twenty minutes. He is still barefoot. I should offer him a lift, but run the risk of chewing his head off if I spend one moment more in his company.
Instead, as I’m sure he is hoping I will, I drive his sister to school and leave him be.
Mid-morning I get a text to say he got there on time. Mid-afternoon, another saying that the interviewer had assured him that they would make him an offer - he is the kind of person they want. Presumably, he did manage to get his shoes and socks on then.