Christmas has an annoying tendency to kick off far too early these days, but I can never give into it until after my son’s birthday on 23 November. This year he turned 18, which feels like a milestone for both of us. He can now legally be served in a pub and go to prison, and I theoretically have a man about the house again. Even though, unfortunately, he seems to have taken after his father in his complete inability to perform any of the traditional male roles, such as assembling flat-packed furniture or not setting fire to the toaster. Still, I feel a sense of achievement at having managed to keep a whole human alive into adulthood.
My other adult human is at university in Manchester. A short train ride away – or an eight-hour round trip by car, which, thanks to Mick Lynch, I shall be forced to undertake this Christmas.
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