The Sorting Hat

"Listen to that"

"Listen to what?"

"Exactly!"

"But there's nothing to hear?"

"Quite so"

"You know you are making no sense, right?

Home alone. Sleeping hound, no sound (aside from the bloody tinnitus I've had since Neil Stephenson shot one of those incredibly loud, six-shooter cap guns right next to my left ear, aged ten).

"Also, you know you are talking to your self?"

"Aye. But there's no other bugger to talk to"

But wait a minute Mr H, how can it be that there is no BT (Boy Teenager) or GT (Girl Teenager) to interact with?

Pull up a comfy chair/train seat/car seat/park bench (or whatever you happen to be able to park your botty on for 5 minutes), and let me tell you a story.

We are back in June and BT, now aged 16, is worrying about his future. His friends are doing GCSEs, whilst BT sits at home, the remnants of his anxiety largely focussed on schooling. He is quiet and withdrawn, and we can understand why. And then I'm struck by a thought; my old boss once gave GT some work experience in one of their City offices - would she do the same for BT? Well, you don't ask, you don't get ... and so I asked.

Which is how it came to be a month later that BT was in town in new shoes, a crisp, white shirt and smart trousers. He was a starting a fortnight of work experience in one of the world’s largest Insurance Brokers. Naturally, because we have never quite managed to hide from the God of Chaos, things did not go so smoothly on day one. He is a very clever lad indeed, and also immensely stubborn. He has reserves of stubborn that run deeper than Liz Truss’s obligations to the oil Oligarchs. Which is why he walked across London Bridge and on to the office in his new, un-broken-in shoes, having ignored our repeated nagging in the previous week to “break the bloody things in around the house”. By midday he was messaging me asking where the nearest pharmacy was, and “would it sell blister plasters?” By home time, he was a barely able to walk. Nonetheless, he hobbled to Cannon Street Station and got on a train. The wrong train. It being a railways industrial action day, his options to go back and get on the right train were somewhat limited. And of course, his feet were too sore to retrace any steps, and so Day One Rescue Plan was implemented (his Mum collected him from the Wrong Station).

Despite foot agony, he was shining like a star at work, and before the end of his first week, he had already been given the news that he was being invited back in September for a month’s paid work. Everyone that he had interacted with couldn’t believe that this lad had suffered from acute anxiety for four years. And boy has he interacted with some senior people; Chief Operating Officer, Chief Finance Officer, HR Director, Chairman of the Board … the list goes on. Gin (you know, she of the Caorun habit) and I were beside ourselves with pride and relief and hope. Call me Aunt Mabel whilst slapping me with the wet end of a cucumber, he was then offered another month’s extension. As I sit here typing, he is in London, with the Chief Risk & Compliance Officer, exploring whether they can create an Apprenticeship for him. It may come to nothing, but the experience for him has been beyond valuable; life-changing even.

Another indicator of his growing confidence was the decision to join a local football team, Hamstring Rovers. Lovely lads, lovely coach, lots of running about, bugger-all winning. Sadly the coach has as much of a grip on football tactics as KamiKwasi Kwarteng does on Economics. Unlike KamiKwasi, Sir Liam Brady (or whatever his name is) isn’t lurking in the background with an evil, but slightly more credible replacement. Still, BT seems to be enjoying it (mostly), despite the repeated losses.

GT, in meanwhile, completed her A-levels, proceeding through them in the most diligent way imaginable. I have never seen anyone work as hard. My poor brain would melt under the onslaught of such information absorption, it preferring to remain like the Albert Hall booked for a David Sylvian concert (largely empty). GT finds comfort in filling every corner of her mind with as much as it can take (and it can take a lot), and she sailed through her exams. Nonetheless, the nerves were stretched further than Boris Johnson’s grasp on truth as we approached results day. I’m not saying it was tense, but even Milo (the wallaby-Spaniel) had taken to hiding behind the sofa. The big day arrived, GT logged in to get her results, and the stars shone brightly, mostly after the grades ”A”. Amazing! And even more amazing, she had secured a place at Cambridge to Study Classic Civilisations (Rome and Greece). What an achievement!

GT obtaining a University place sent Gin into a Mother Hen frenzy. Determined to ensure that her off-spring would be well equipped and comfortable, and not appear to be the state-supported college entrant that she is, Gin embarked on a spending spree the likes of which hasn’t been seen since Carrie Johnson redecorated 10 Downing Street. As GT’s bedroom began to pile up with New and Useful Things, I had to intervene pointing out that we had Pre-loved duplicates of most of the New Things that remained on Gin’s extensive shopping list. Heated words were exchanged, and true to historical form, I lost. The Pre-loved things remain in their draw and New Things continued to accumulate on GT’s floor.

Because GT is a state-school peasant, she has never had to learn Latin, which is a bit awkward when you are spending 50% of your time studying ancient Rome. Neither has she learned Greek (beyond “Kotopoulo”, the word for chicken, and the only Greek I mastered on our one and only family holiday to Corfu. I spent the week shouting it in a stupid voice, the only thing that passed for entertainment in what turned out to be Corfu's pre-season week). Cambridge invited her up for a two week crash course to learn Latin in August, giving us all a taste of things to come. It also gave GT her first, massive vodka-fuelled hang-over, despite her mother’s specific instructions “Not to get drunk the night before I collect you to bring you home”. The genes are strong in that one. Being sick in a dog-poo bag is, apparently, not much fun.

And so the big day arrived in October to take GT to start her Uni life proper. The Sorting Hat had determined her to be a Buttlepuff and put her into Pooperhouse college, and GT Has secured a small room in St Pooper’s Row next door to the main hall. The car was loaded, including Milo, and nestling on its suspension uppers, off we set. Milo was to spend the afternoon at our dog loving friends in St Albans, whilst we went on to deliver the daughter. We dropped him with Helen and Paul, who immediately took him into the garden to “wear him out”, throwing a ball around for him. Little did he know about Milo, balls and wearing out. We returned six hours later to find the husk of a man in the garden, dribbling and crying, whilst automatically throwing a ball for a mad Spaniel that was having the time of his life. The dog was beyond hyper, the man beyond saving.

We settled GT into her room, impressed with the age and grandeur of the buildings, and the lovely view she has across a little garden straight into a Costa Coffee. And then we left her to start her new life and for us to return to our old, but now different lives back at home.

It’s a strange feeling watching your kids move on, starting to make their way in the world, but utterly wonderful that the paths in front of them look so amazing. All we can do now is hope that both their paths continue to lead them forward to lives that make them happy and healthy.

Every silver lining has some sort of cloud attached, and Milo decided that he would inject some angst by having an on-going problem with a leaky outlet pipe from his waterworks. Months of investigations, scans, biopsies and partly-insured expense lead to the conclusion that “there’s nothing obviously wrong with him”. And as if by magic, as soon as the diagnosis was in, it all stopped. It’s almost as though he understands. I swear we have the only dog with Munchausen Syndrome. Not to be outdone on the attention front, the cat waded in with a weird growth on his foot. A trip to the vets, the sucking of teeth, a biopsy and removal of the lump, and the removal of £640 from Gin’s wallet, and he was mended. A few weeks of worried waiting for the inevitable “cancer” diagnosis followed, and then it was in.

“Good news”, said the vet, “it’s the cat equivalent of a cold-sore”.

A cold-sore. £640 to get a foot herp removed. £640 that Gin had saved for three years so that she could buy a very fancy handbag. I suggested that a cat-shaped handbag would be fetching, and would save any future vet bills, but GT put the stoppers on that.

And so to the current day, in a post Trussonomics world where everything costs more and is worth less. Whilst Liz was busy making bankers and oil company Executive even wealthier, we have spent a large chunk of our savings re-glazing the house and re-decorating the entire place, done in preparation to sell it when the time comes. Said time was originally thought to be of our choosing, sometime in the next decade, but the power of Trussonomics is such that our mortgage repayments will be hair-raising when our fixed deal ends next year. And thanks to Laughing-All-The-Way-To-The-Bank-Liz and KamiKwasi, these payments will swallow up our dwindling investment pot (also taking a clobbering from Trussonomics) faster than Gin opening the drinks cupboard on a Friday evening. Like everyone else, we can only hope for a General Election very soon, and a chance to get some proper Grown-Ups in to govern the country.

And with that Little Bit Of Politics, as Ben Elton used to say, it’s time for me to go do something more useful.

Take care, my one remaining reader (also known as “Mum”),

Love and elbow-grease,

Mr H x