They grow up. They leave. They want to head off into the big wide world and leave behind the familiar safe comforts of home. The nest is suddenly too small to house their enthusiastic ambition. They say their goodbyes and head off into the brave new world.
I have been like a father to my student neighbours this year.
I have watched over them, my head shaking, as they have dumped enough beer cans and bottles on their front lawn to fill a landfill site the size of Wales.
I have laughed scornfully at their appalling dress sense, their idiotic facial hair furniture (ignoring my own) and the bizarre sound-bite posters they put on show in their bedroom windows.
I have gnashed my teeth and seethed through sleepless nights when the vibrations and noise from their industrial strength subwoofer has threatened to frack my entire street into Roman mosaic sized rubble. I have not understood their music. I have bewailed the tunelessness of it, the lyric ridiculousness; I have compared the endless beat and twisted synth moans to the meaningless noise emitted by a hippopotamus farting into a vuvuzela. It’s not proper music. Not like the music I used to listen to when I was their age; music that had a proper melody and lyrics that meant something that my dad nevertheless dismissed as meaningless noise.
I have shuddered every time they have slammed the front door, stomped up and down the stairs at all hours of the night and conducted loud and ebullient conversations about “how much beer, yeah, they can drink, yeah, in one sesh at the pub and still have room for a kebab, yeah, you get me?” at 4 effing a.m. in the morning.
Lord knows I’ve loved them. Lord knows I want the best for them given the amount of time, money and effort I have invested into their upbringing and education. But now that they are going, God forgive me, I can’t help but think “thank Christ, thank God it’s over”.
I wish them well. Of course I do. I wish them every success in whatever hare-brained pursuit they decide to follow.
But I consider my job to be done. I’m cutting the apron strings. I don’t want to see them back. Not ever. I’ll change the locks if I have to.
Go forth. Be men, my sons.
Go get some student kids of your own.
And then suffer as I have suffered, you little shits.
God bless.
16 comments:
Pretty lax parenting on your part. You could have taught them how to surrender peacefully when armed policemen raid their dwelling and handcuff them to the cooker while searching for illegal narcotics. Now they'll have acquire such important life experiences while not being under your benevolent gaze. And I bet they made fun of your beard behind your back.
Gorilla Bananas: I'm not entirely sure they confined it to behind my back. As for the police, I bet I've been overlooking a future Police Chief or at the very least a Gene Hunt wannabe.
Such nice comments from a landlord.
But no doubt you've got other lined up for the coming academic year.
Barry: oh trust you to burst my bubble. I'm hoping the new lot might be religious nuts who spend the day chanting quietly and gazing at their navels.
A Well written and lovely post
john: really?! I fear you might be referring to my previous post...!
I had to google "vuvuzela". It wasn't as filthy as I'd hoped.
Frank Muir would have come up with a far more interesting definition for the word.
Rol: not as filthy as you'd hoped? Now I feel like I've let you down. I've let men down. And I've let myself down. Sorry.
A hippopotamus farting into a vuvuzela - that's beautiful, that is.
Trish: poetry, innit? I have been known, you know, to throw the odd metaphor and simile together.
At last...thanks to you I have the phrase which describes the celebrations of local football fans during the World Cup
'the meaningless noise emitted by a hippopotamus farting into a vuvuzela'.....
The fly in the web: "the beautiful game" inspires poetry at last.
Even when they're gone they'll still keep you awake. They'll be in your dreams, and your nightmares.
Fredulous Yo: in actual fact a new lot moved in almost immediately... without thank God a subwoofer. They still play music which makes my face tick... but (so fat at least) the volume is bearable. Fingers crossed.
Ha! Hope you don't get another load moving in! Theer are some near me - they had a party in the garden one night and after hours of plotting (naturally I couldn't sleep) I decided to move the lawn at an ungodly hour in the morning to get my own back. I staggered out of bed only to realise they were not sleeping but still all in the garden! Couldn't even get my own back...
Suburbia: funny you should say that. Another lot of younglings moved in almost immediately... however, they're (touch wood) not as loud as the previous occupants. Fingers crossed they stay that way.
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