I don’t really know what I’m saying with this – uh, it was different back then? But also, I suppose, that it’s ok for your children to fit around you sometimes rather than the other way. I’m not particularly susceptible to guilt about how my children spend their holidays: I mean, I’m here most of the time aren’t I? Quality be damned. But it is hard not to succumb to the sense that you should be constantly laying on a smorgasbord of age-appropriate and improving activities, when in fact, some of the best and most enlightening times of your childhood can be neither of those things. I felt a lot closer to my father – who could be a rather distant, intimidating figure on the end of the phone from York – after those strange, chaotic weeks. I liked how we’d hop on and off the 52 bus, or drop into Patisserie Valerie to buy croissants on grey summer London mornings with that particular smell of warm city dirt and diesel. I loved our skiving saltimbocca lunches and I liked discovering him in that other, adult context, at home in the big, glamorous city and at home in his work. I liked to see him being impressive, concentrating, or laughing, pink cheeked and tipsy with Casper on his shoulder. You discover your parents in another light in those moments: I remember too, opening the front door at home to my mother, joyfully staggering drunk having just been awarded her PhD. It’s instructive, important, sometimes slightly shocking, to see their life beyond you.
Oh this is lovely, sense-making writing from Belgian Waffling.