My son and I are out for
a night in the West End. This is unusual as he is a teenager and, usually, he
wouldn’t be seen dead with me, not even after I’ve given him my word not to do funny dances in front of his friends or kiss him just as we’re passing the local gang of hoodies or appear at the school gate wearing leather and a push-up bra. Can you get fairer than that? I don’t think so. But he has his own social life now, which seems to involve going to somewhere called ‘the top field’ quite a lot. What do you do at ‘the top field’? ‘Stuff,’ he will say. What sort of stuff? I will ask. ‘Just stuff,’ he will say. What sort of just stuff? I will ask. ‘JUST STUFF!,’ he will say. That’s all you do, just stuff? Doesn’t that get boring after a while? Don’t you ever do any unjust stuff? Put people on trial without juries? Arrest them without informing them of their rights? I’m usually only just getting going when, whoosh-bang, he’s off with a slam of the front door.
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