"The ‘ends well’ bit, I shout. "I want the ‘ends well’ bit. I want the ‘ends well’ bit now."

HOME ALONE, and waiting for a call from my husband. 

He’s in London with my son, who had an interview this afternoon for a job which is so proper-sounding that it’s challenging certain assumptions I’ve made about further education.

“And there I was,” I muse, lying on the sofa with book, hot water bottle and house-phone, “thinking that he simply had a degree in hot chicken rolls, over-the-counter hangover cures and losing iPods.”