till all hours, so it’s often six-thirty or even later by the time I leave the office. Thanks to my dear parents, when I get home Mia has already eaten her tea and is usually ready for bed. Then I’ve just got half an hour to read her a bedtime story and the rest of the evening is spent flaking out in front of the television with my folks.
I’m now an expert on
Midsomer Murders
and
Flog It!
, which they record for me every day because, for some inexplicable reason, they’ve decided I like them. I don’t have the heart to tell them otherwise. So I endure watching people being killed by giant cheeses falling on them and others trying to auction off the most terrible tat that has been hiding in their loft since time began, and smile gratefully because my parents are such very, very kind people. Without their constant support, I don’t know where Mia and I would be.
My childhood home has been decorated for Christmas since the middle of November. My dad likes to grumble about it, but I know he enjoys it too. Now that they’ve got Mia here, they’re like big kids themselves. Some of the Christmas decorations they have were probably among the first invented.
I remember them getting their current tree when I was Mia’s age, so they’ve certainly had their money’s worth out of it. I suspect it came from the long-defunct Woolworths in its heyday. It’s looking a bit moth-eaten and ragged now, but even if they won the lottery I don’t think they’d replace it. ‘Sentimental value’, my mother says. Which usually means it’s fit for the skip. But once it’s all done up in its festive finery – some of the more dubious decorations hand-knitted by Mum – I have to admit that it doesn’t look half bad. Mia certainly doesn’t seem to notice that it’s seen better days. We have to go through a weekly ritual of standing in awe before the tree while Granny tells her where each and every one of the decorations has come from. I’m surprised that my mum even remembers. No, actually, I’m not.
‘Lie down, Mummy,’ Mia cajoles.
‘For two minutes.’ I try to sound stern, but Mia knows she’s on to a winner.
So I turn off her bedside light and the room is filled with a soft golden glow. I risk damaging my fabulous hairdo and snuggle down next to my daughter. Softly I sing her favourite lullaby, ‘Hush Little Baby’. It’s the one I’ve sung to her since she was a baby, the same one my mother used to sing to me at bedtime when I was Mia’s age. Slowly, she drifts off.
It seems like seconds later when my dad is gently shaking my arm. I blink my eyes open, not knowing, for a split second, where I am. It appears, however, that I’ve drooled on the pillow.
‘I don’t like to disturb you, love, but what time are you going to this party?’
That makes me sit bolt upright and, of course, I wake Mia too. Next to me she rubs her eyes.
‘It’s nearly half-past seven,’ he adds.
‘Oh, no.’
‘Should I have woken you earlier, love? I didn’t realise the time.’
‘I’ve missed the coach,’ I tell him, my shoulders sagging.
‘Not to worry, Lou-Lou. If you still want to go, I’ll run you in the car.’
‘You can’t do that, Dad.’
‘It’s no trouble.’
‘But it’s miles.’
‘No, no,’ he says. ‘Not that far.’
‘Don’t go!’ Mia starts again, and she wraps her arms round my waist, clinging like a limpet.
The temptation is very strong to shrug off my dress and Mum’s jewels, ignore the money I’ve spent on my hairdo, mark it down to experience and just stay here with my deliciously cosy daughter. But then I think it would look bad if I didn’t show. I’m sure Tyler Benson would hold it against me and I can’t risk doing anything that would cost me this job.
‘I
have
to go,’ I tell her. To Dad, I say, ‘Duty calls.’
Which is why, ten minutes later, with my hair only slightly askew, my dear dad is backing his Ford Focus out of the garage.
‘Is Mia warm enough?’ Mum
I’m now an expert on
Midsomer Murders
and
Flog It!
, which they record for me every day because, for some inexplicable reason, they’ve decided I like them. I don’t have the heart to tell them otherwise. So I endure watching people being killed by giant cheeses falling on them and others trying to auction off the most terrible tat that has been hiding in their loft since time began, and smile gratefully because my parents are such very, very kind people. Without their constant support, I don’t know where Mia and I would be.
My childhood home has been decorated for Christmas since the middle of November. My dad likes to grumble about it, but I know he enjoys it too. Now that they’ve got Mia here, they’re like big kids themselves. Some of the Christmas decorations they have were probably among the first invented.
I remember them getting their current tree when I was Mia’s age, so they’ve certainly had their money’s worth out of it. I suspect it came from the long-defunct Woolworths in its heyday. It’s looking a bit moth-eaten and ragged now, but even if they won the lottery I don’t think they’d replace it. ‘Sentimental value’, my mother says. Which usually means it’s fit for the skip. But once it’s all done up in its festive finery – some of the more dubious decorations hand-knitted by Mum – I have to admit that it doesn’t look half bad. Mia certainly doesn’t seem to notice that it’s seen better days. We have to go through a weekly ritual of standing in awe before the tree while Granny tells her where each and every one of the decorations has come from. I’m surprised that my mum even remembers. No, actually, I’m not.
‘Lie down, Mummy,’ Mia cajoles.
‘For two minutes.’ I try to sound stern, but Mia knows she’s on to a winner.
So I turn off her bedside light and the room is filled with a soft golden glow. I risk damaging my fabulous hairdo and snuggle down next to my daughter. Softly I sing her favourite lullaby, ‘Hush Little Baby’. It’s the one I’ve sung to her since she was a baby, the same one my mother used to sing to me at bedtime when I was Mia’s age. Slowly, she drifts off.
It seems like seconds later when my dad is gently shaking my arm. I blink my eyes open, not knowing, for a split second, where I am. It appears, however, that I’ve drooled on the pillow.
‘I don’t like to disturb you, love, but what time are you going to this party?’
That makes me sit bolt upright and, of course, I wake Mia too. Next to me she rubs her eyes.
‘It’s nearly half-past seven,’ he adds.
‘Oh, no.’
‘Should I have woken you earlier, love? I didn’t realise the time.’
‘I’ve missed the coach,’ I tell him, my shoulders sagging.
‘Not to worry, Lou-Lou. If you still want to go, I’ll run you in the car.’
‘You can’t do that, Dad.’
‘It’s no trouble.’
‘But it’s miles.’
‘No, no,’ he says. ‘Not that far.’
‘Don’t go!’ Mia starts again, and she wraps her arms round my waist, clinging like a limpet.
The temptation is very strong to shrug off my dress and Mum’s jewels, ignore the money I’ve spent on my hairdo, mark it down to experience and just stay here with my deliciously cosy daughter. But then I think it would look bad if I didn’t show. I’m sure Tyler Benson would hold it against me and I can’t risk doing anything that would cost me this job.
‘I
have
to go,’ I tell her. To Dad, I say, ‘Duty calls.’
Which is why, ten minutes later, with my hair only slightly askew, my dear dad is backing his Ford Focus out of the garage.
‘Is Mia warm enough?’ Mum
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