Ruth Walker: ‘I might as well be swimming naked across the Forth chewing on a stick of celery’

MU-UM ...” This is the Teenager, calling from her first solo week away from home. She’s in London, it’s day one and she has already called eight times.

“Yes,” I say, “everything OK?”

I’ve hardly slept a wink, worrying about the hygiene of her accommodation (youth hostel), the insufficient warmth of her clothing (“it’s soooo cold here,” she moans) and the numerous dangers that could befall my sweet, tender, naive (cough) girl in the big smoke (falling under a tube train, wandering into a ‘bad’ neighbourhood, abduction, rape, death ...), so, as you can imagine, I’m a little on edge.

“Just wondering,” she says, giggling nervously (I can hear her friend is also giggling in the background. What is going on?) “Is 999 still the number for emergency services or is it 911?”

In the hit parade of sentences a loving parent never wants to hear, this has to be a hot new entry at number three. For two reasons. First, I fear she is suffering a genuine emergency, her very life at risk, and I can’t be there to save her. I’m helplessly out of control and therefore so far out of my comfort zone I might as well be swimming naked across the Forth chewing on a stick of raw celery (I should state that I’m not a strong swimmer, I hate being cold and celery is my least favourite thing in the world).

Second, does my child, having viewed far too many episodes of The Mentalist and CSI:NY and Criminal Minds, really think Britain has covertly joined the US and adopted its emergency number? She’ll be celebrating Labor Day next. And eating waffles with syrup for breakfast instead of a hearty bowl of porridge. Hang on ...

Anyway, she assures me there is no emergency; she wants to know “just in case”. I hang up, unconvinced.

An hour later, the phone rings again. She’s breathless and I can’t make out what she’s saying. “Mum!” Gasp ... pant ... “BFF has just been ...”

What’s happened to BFF?

“She has,” gasp, “just been scouted!”

Is this bad? Good? I can’t be sure. And the panting on the other end of the phone is giving me no clues.

“No!” I can actually hear the eyes rising heavenwards as the exasperated teen wonders what she did to deserve such a slow-witted parent. “She’s been scouted. By a model scout. They’ve taken Polaroids and given us a business card and everything. They want to see her again tomorrow.”

The excitement is palpable, so I feel it’s my duty as a fully paid-up member of Killjoys Anonymous to rain on their parade. Just be careful, I tell them. Get them to call BFF’s mum etc, etc. I can sense the deflation. Job done.

I’m picking up the wine from Sainsbury’s when the next call comes in. “I met him!” she squeals. “I touched him!”

I know who she’s talking about this time. Her Christmas present was tickets to see Eddie Redmayne in Richard II at the Donmar Warehouse. They arrived early and caught him at the stage door. Even I’m excited. And I don’t get excited very often.

Then it hits me. My baby’s all grown up, making her way in the world and loving every minute. I think I’m just a teensy bit jealous.