Mums the word with Janet Christie

T in the Park may be a muddy memory for Eldest Child and his crew but I’m still dealing with the aftermath

Knowing the only way to avoid going myself and wandering ten paces behind him crying was to flee, I went to New York on a work trip and threw myself into the distractions of the Big Apple.

Waiting on my return, piled in front of the washing machine, was an entire T in the 
Ps-worth of gear; wellies, sleeping bags, rags. Joggers have been in and out more times than Kerry Katona’s belly button and still the mud is ingrained. Then there’s the T-shirt that’s taken up residence in a bowl of bleach beside the sink, a stain darkening the collar.

“What is this anyway?” I ask him. “Sauce? Vomit? Blood?”

“No,” he says with a world-weary air. “It’s piss.”

“Urine! There? Were you drinking it?!”

“No,” sigh. “People throw bottles of it around.”

“Were you hit on the head?” I gasp. His fontanelle has been closed 17 years now but for me, his head is still a fuzzy little peach.

“For God’s sake. We weren’t mugged, raped, arrested, sold dodgy drugs or any of the things you said would happen.”

“You’re right. You’re sensible. I need to relax, chill, lighten up.”

“You do.”

“Ok.”

“Cool. But what are poppers?”

Oh God.