The pain has been bad so I stayed at home with him while the rest of the family
went to take their chance at TV Centre.
I wandered around with a heat pack wrapped inside my pashmina and tied
round my middle.
He's excited because tomorrow he goes to meet his "Divine Sarah" and spend
a few days with her, playing house.
The night before last he accompanied his parents to an event held in a plush
burlesque club and promptly left to spend the evening in the car.
"I felt uncomfortable being there and her feeling ill away up in Yorkshire."
Bless him!
Under that unfazable, super cool exterior he does have limits and standards
he can't transgress, and is willing to stick to them.
He handed me two pairs of denims, scruffy and frayed, and indicated the
slashes in each on the inner thigh.
"Can you mend these like now?"
Two slits closed later and as I clipped off the cotton, I tentatively asked
if I should also trim off the tatty scraps that drag at his heels.
OMG! No! They're like essential"
But not the slits?
Think tolerance Jenny.
After all, here you are dressed in fleecy, uncoordinated layers, real grunge,
with a halogen forehead lamp and glasses on the end of your nose.
Best keep quiet perhaps?
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