The big day arrives. To some it’s just another Saturday in June but no. Not only is it the midpoint of Glastonbury, it’s the midpoint of Wimbledon and bizarrely the midpoint of the year, in that it’s exactly six months from/to Christmas. Freaky, scary even. If all these significant events have coincided at the same time it can only mean one thing. It must be Daughter’s eighteenth birthday.
The countdown has been going on for some time, approximately the last four years, so you must have noticed. I’m surprised they haven’t got one of those big clocks in Trafalgar Square counting down. Well they have, but it’s for the Olympics, that thing you can’t get tickets for.
Subsequently our Saturday lie-in is truncated, although it’s not all Daughter’s fault. True, L is up and baking birthday cake but I’m berating Student Finance England over the phone and that is no one’s fault but their own, for being crap, again.
At lunch we assemble the family hoards and invade a local hostelry that doubles as a Thai restaurant. Daughter goes to the off licence on the way to try out her ID.
The restaurant is a compromise. Daughter wanted Chinese but L’s not keen on Chinese. Daughter’s not keen on Thai but we’re paying, so Thai it is. Personally I don’t think there’s much difference between the two but here at least I can get a pint.
It all goes well. The family depart, Daughter heads for home to meet some friends for part two, so L and I amble back, stopping for another beer on the way.
Then Daughter hits the town, on her first night of freedom and we hope that she isn’t too late home, along with L she has a 8am train to catch tomorrow. We go to bed early, shattered. Daughter tumbles in at 2.45am and wakes us both up, which works out better than it might have. I'll thank her later.
(Saturday 25th June)
That First Night Out
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