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
school.”
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.
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