I also find myself this week mourning the loss of the England stars of 1966, but at least the office Christmas party is cancelled
The deed is done. When our daughter, Anna, left home for good about four years ago, she made it very clear that she expected her bedroom to be left intact as a shrine. Not so with our son Robbie. When he left university and decided to remain in Brighton, he told us we could do what we liked with his room as he wouldn’t be coming back to live with us permanently. So last week I sawed up the wooden pallets he had insisted on using as a bed, and we got a builder and decorator in to turn the room into a workspace for my wife. And very lovely it is, except I can’t help feeling some sadness at having packed up in boxes what few possessions he had left in the room for him to take back to the rented house he now shares with friends. I know that it is as it should be – that helping your children learn to be independent is one of the main functions of a parent – but I can’t help experiencing it as some kind of loss. I’d almost rather have maintained the pretence, as with Anna, that he might be coming back at some point. Even though I know that if either were to come home for any length of time, we’d be sure to get on each other’s nerves within days.
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