Janet Christie’s Mum’s the Word
How did families work before mobile phones? Ah yes, I remember, it involved us doing loads of stuff about which our parents were oblivious, and they were much happier that way, trust me. As long as I was back in bed by midnight of a weekend they didn’t need to know I was leaving the country – OK, we lived on the Border and nipping over to Scotland for last orders because of the extra half hour drinking time in those days is hardly backpacking solo around South East Asia – we’re talking 11pm instead of 10.30pm. Underage? Nobody cared.
Admittedly I once went to Morocco when my mother thought I was in Spain, but even then she greeted the news on my return with equanimity, being much more interested in the babouche slippers and jewellery I’d brought her, and it had all turned out well so why worry. Ah, happy days.
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Hide AdNow we can track our offsprings’ every move 24/7. In theory. In practice they don’t/won’t pick up/their phone’s dead/lost/couldn’t hear you over the music, and you’re consigned to fret. Even when the mobiles are working there’s plenty of room for error terror on the part of the parent.
So, I’m in the pub to watch Eldest and his pal playing, leaving Youngest to Love Island while I nip out for a couple of hours (she’s old enough to vote, it’s OK I tell myself). Except he’s not there. Then he texts – he’s nipped home to get a forgotten lead. Handy, these mobiles, I’ll get him to check on Youngest. “She wasn’t in the house,” he texts back en route to the pub.
Cue pit of stomach lurch. Wee minx has nipped out without messaging.
“Where are you?” I text her.
“Still in bed. Why?”
“Eldest said you weren’t there.”
“Him? He hasn’t even left his room all night.”
“Er yes he has, he was in the pub, then home, now he’s in the pub again, playing his guitar. I’m watching. Won’t be long.”
“Whatever. Can’t keep track. I know, how about everyone just gets off their phone?”