Seventeen

My girl is 17 years old today. I knew this in advance, of course, but it still feels astonishing.

She’s ensconsed on the sofa watching Charlotte’s Web with her two sleepover friends. PWS BFF (Prader-Willi Syndrome Best Friend Forever) hasn’t seen it before, but she has just announced that “I know the spider dies”. ASC BB (After School Club Best Buddy) has yet to reveal any other spoilers.

We’ve already given my girl’s new Taylor Swift LP a spin on the turntable. The vinyl version of 1989 was top of her birthday list, thanks to a recent sudden fascination with our own record collection. I’m quite happy with her choice; it’s a hell of an improvement from last year’s musical favourites, One Direction. 

Other presents include a Thomas The Tank Engine Story Collection and a mobile phone, which kind of says everything about the idiosyncracies of our amazing, anomalous daughter.

The two PWS girls have been in food heaven, with some carefully managed treats: they demolished some healthy chicken tikka in the curry hut last night (whilst my son overdosed on not-so-healthy mango chutney). We took over the restaurant: there were 14 of us, including my mum and dad, and a couple of LOTIWTSW (Lovable Old Trouts I Went To School With), their other halfs and offspring. No-sugar ginger beer was drunk, candles on the cake were blown out, and slices of spongy Minion Dave cake were substituted with Weightwatchers caramel cake bars.

The girls conked out on their airbeds in my daughter’s room at around 10.30pm last night. My boy, filled to the brim with poppadoms, didn’t even attempt to bother them. Impeccable behaviour at home from him is so unusual that I can confirm we saw flying pigs in the night sky, soaring above a hell that had, indeed, frozen over.

It was a perfect evening, apart from England crashing out of the Rugby World Cup. Mind you, perversely, even that sporting disaster made us smile: the kids had taken over the telly for an after-curry film showing, so us adults were huddled around my computer watching the game. After the second Australia try, my husband stomped off to join the girls in the other room with the immortal words: “Bugger this! I’ve had enough. I’m going to watch Cinderella!”

Song is The Beattle-Ettes - Only Seventeen