My twins are eighteen today.
They will celebrate at the weekend, perhaps rather too fully, with a Bacchanalian party.
Today I just want us to find one moment when we can all touch base together, (or at least most of us, since Pascoe is away at uni).
What about breakfast?
Perran doesn’t get back from his paper round until Nigel has left on his long commute.
Can we have dinner together? Nope. Perran has to be at school for the big annual dance show. He has to be at school by 6.00; Nigel can’t get back from work until 6.40, earliest.
“Well I guess we’ll celebrate as a family at the weekend. But you could bring home a few friends for cake at tea-time, if you want.”
“No,” says Carenza, “I’m on the debating team against the other local comp. It’s straight after
I’m thinking, but not saying, that this is the last birthday at home. For the next three years, their birthday will fall slap-bang in term time.
“So we’ll all spend the day in different places, doing different things?”
“No – my birthday outing is going with Sas to see Perran dance.”
“And it’ll be over by half nine or ten, Mum. We can grab some time then.”
So grab it I will – a real fire, hot chocolate, birthday cake, gifts in gold wrapping paper. I can’t wait.