EDitorial ± 14-Apr-2007
(NB Long-ish build-up, but worth it for the pay-off, in my humble opinion.) So, a sunny Saturday saw the homecoming of the Kent kids: it had to happen. Stuck to the fridge for a few weeks had been an invitation, for The Boy, to a party to take place that very afternoon. He'd pre-warned us that:
- the hostess of said party was A Girl (!) in his class,
- and that he & best mate Ryan might be the only boys there
Thought we could pick up Ryan en route. Rang his mum to discover that she'd forgotten all about the do -- d'oh! -- and that her son would be at the Ipswich-Derby footy game instead. Parental dilemma: (a) inform The Boy that best mate won't be there and risk him wussing out, or (b) say nothing. We voted to keep schtum.
Three-fifteen comes around and into the car we go, carrying a suitably girly present plus card. I drop him off and thankfully I see at least one other lad through the hall. He's happy enough so off I pop into town for combs, a mixing bowl and a medio Americano.
Coupla hours later, I'm back, catching the tail end of a hired magician's act: he hands out cards to the queue of waiting parents declaring himself to be called Colin. Oh no, that's Colini, with an I. The Boy seems to have had a good time and I suggest popping round to my mum's: good idea, he says.
Outside Nana's, and father & son are idly kicking a ball back and forth:
[Dad, affecting insouciance] Who was at the party?
[Boy] One or two boys in my class, but not Ryan.
[Dad] Oh. Well, I know he likes football -- perhaps he was at the match?
[Boy, thoughtfully] Could be. He does like football.
A minute or two later, and a girl walks past wearing an ITFC top. Good match?, I ask her. Yep, she says, two late goals won it for us.