I’m not really enjoying being a grown up at the moment. Today, especially, has been one of those days when it is just plain hard work; I seem to have been busy sorting out one problem after another, some of which are my own doing and some of which are the fault of other people who I am pretty sure are completely oblivious to the havoc they have been wreaking.
The situation isn’t helped by the fact that I’ve been a bit out of practice at being a grown up for the last couple of weeks. My parents, who come to the UK around this time every year, have been visiting. (Because I have a slightly complicated family, my use of the term "parents" is more about syntax than semantics; here I mean my Dad and my step-Mum. My actual Mum, as it happens, is also due to a arrive for a visit, but not for another couple of weeks.)
Just like always, for part of the time they were here I felt like a 10 year old again. Just like always, this was a source of immense frustration and great comfort; both at once, and in equal measures. Just like always, I managed to hold it together long enough to hug my Dad goodbye at the airport, then burst into tears the minute I was around the corner and knew he couldn’t see me any more. And just like always, now that they’ve gone, I miss them desperately.
I miss being told off by my Dad for talking on a Zurich tourist tram instead of listening to the audio commentary. And then spending the rest of the afternoon desperately trying to shoe-horn facts and figures from the commentary into various conversations to prove that, actually, I had been listening all along. I miss hearing the same stories, and the same arguments, and the same bad jokes I heard last year, and the year before, and the year before that.
I miss hearing them bicker about their (our) plans for the day, and trotting along behind them as they try, with the help of my step-mum’s ancient but trusty A to Z, to navigate around the city which has been my home for eight years (a period still not quite long enough to qualify me to have an opinion on its geography or tourist attractions). I miss listening to my Dad get impatient, and to my step-mum speak her mind, and I miss marvelling at how well they know each other and their ability to keep the peace almost by instinct.
I miss not being allowed to pay for my own Tower of London ticket, and then having to listen to complaints about how overpriced everything is. I miss being taken out for dinner and collected from train stations. I miss answering questions about how far it is from the bus stop to my house, and how I'll get home this late at night, and whether I have a doctor and how often I go, and who does my tax returns. I miss the subtle enquiries about my social life, and the relief which is evident whenever it sounds like I might actually have one.
As you might expect, some (most) of these things drive me absolutely crazy. But, they also make me feel cared for, and worried about, and loved. It's not a bad trade-off. For two, sometimes three weeks every year, around this time, I feel incredibly safe. I'm perfectly fine the rest of the time, but it's still good knowing that they're around. Just in case. They’ll be back next year, almost definitely, but right now that seems like an awfully long time to have to wait. In the meantime, it's back to being a full-time grown-up for me.
I’m off to Latitude tomorrow, and still have a load of stuff to sort out and a pile of work to do before I pack up my shiny new tent and even shinier new wellies and head off for a weekend of camping, music, comedy and other lovely stuff. The thought of which would be completely idyllic were it not for the fact that one of the problems I still have to sort out is how to get back a day earlier than planned, for work.
You, knowing you, are probably wondering why, given my footloose and fancy freelance existence, I didn’t just arrange not to be working on Monday? Good question. You might also be wondering why I’m only just now trying to work out how I’m going to get back, when I have had this work booked in for months? Another good question. I have been asking myself the exact same things all day. Except for the times when I have been smacking myself in the head and cursing my sheer incompetence.
It's a long story. I wasn't really thinking. I didn't read an email properly. And now, because I've made a stupid commitment to deliver some stupid training workshops on Monday, I have to come back early. I can't just not turn up, or call in sick, or claim short term amnesia. Well, I suppose I could. But I won't; because I'm a stupid GROWN-UP.
I'll be off the radar until Sunday, I suppose, so will see you then for an I-wish-I-was-still-at-Latitude themed Sunday Night Music Club. Unless of course, I change my mind and don't come back. Ever. It's quite tempting, to be honest.
No comments:
Post a Comment