All any parent wants is for their children’s dreams to come true.
The only trouble with that is our daughters’ current dreams are getting a third cat and replacing the bedroom floor with a giant trampoline.
There are two reasons why these dreams will never be realised. Firstly, the boss’ cat tolerance is currently running at about 99.99 per cent, what with the fatter and edgier of our two felines regularly marking his territory on the Sky+ box with foul-smelling jets of warm urine.
Secondly, there’s only about 7ft of space between the floor and the ceiling in daughter #1’s en suite loft conversion, rendering a trampoline both useless and potentially fatal.
But we all had big dreams once. These days the only ones I have that are fit to print in the mainstream media are as follows...
1. Letting our cats out the front door
2. The Spar shop around the corner is closed for a refit, but
the cash machine outside is still operational
3. The Deutsche Bahn sponsor’s logo on the front of my Hertha Berlin football shirt comes off in the wash.
But our kids are growing up fast.
Their school books, especially the maths ones, look like the worst nightmare you’ve ever had. Not many numbers, but loads of letters, line after line of working out and answers followed by lots of little red ticks.
And their social lives would make for better reality TV fodder than the pointless guff farted out by the DayGlo mouth-breathers on TOWIE.
One night last week was spent watching a supercool American punk band at Manchester Academy where the largely teenage and overexcited audience showed their appreciation by catapulting their training bras at the lads on stage, was followed the next evening by a school disco where hormones smashed off the walls faster than accelerated energy particles in the Large Hadron Collider.
It’s no wonder daughter #1 never rises before noon of a weekend.
What with everything that’s going on I’m surprised that she manages to drag herself to school five days a week.