The degeneration of daughters bedroom from a charming, be-sequined boudoir, into a sort of bedroom version of a trampy, grafiteed subway, was slow and subtle. I hardly noticed it happening until, one day, I realised I didn’t want my mother to go in and see the giant snog chart that had sprawled over the ceiling, a saliva-infested-ivy-trail of debauchery.
And now, it is going, and I feel rather sad. Daughter has painted over the snog chart. She has taken down the photographs of her and her pals drinking Bacardi Breezers and hanging out in Emsworth woods. Pete Docherty has been rolled up and put away. She is painting her walls Rose White and wants me to make some blue Kidston-esque curtains for the windows. She wants a room of calm and quiet. A grown up’s room.
I’m not sure I’m ready to lose my stroppy teen. It went too quickly. I feel like I did when she started school, I want to drag my feet on the floor, put brakes on the world. This ride is going too fast for me.