Monday I go with my 17-year-old son to meet a training provider about an ICT course he’s hoping to start. After introductions, the tutor asks if I’d wait in reception. He seems surprised when my son says: “I’d like Mum to talk with us.” I want to ruffle my son’s hair. But I can barely reach the top of his head, and I know how long it’s taken to get every hair in place this morning - hair that is usually covered by a baseball cap.
Tuesday I drive to a local beauty spot to walk the dog and come back to find the car has been broken into. An elderly couple parked next to me tell me the culprit pretended he was my son, that he’d found the car like this, and had gone to report it to the police. “He was only about 17,” they say, “with a beige jumper and a white baseball cap.”
Wednesday My son clears broken glass out of the car while I make calls to insurance companies and repairers. My son wears his baseball cap and appears to slouch a lot. I have an irrational feeling about that item of clothing.
Thursday It’s a warm day. My daughter arrives with her two-year-old in his pushchair. He’s wearing a cap, the wrong way round, to protect his neck from the sun. “If he’s wearing that cap, he can wear it properly,” I almost shout. I wonder if I’ve become paranoid about a piece of headgear that not long ago was worn as part of formal school uniform.
Friday I meet my union rep at a five-star country house hotel. In the lounge next to us is a group of thirtysomething businessmen talking corporate finance. They are loud and brash, sprawling across the settees, and at least two have their feet on the table. All are in suits and ties. I think of that saying about the product being more important than the packaging - and restore my faith in teenagers.
Brenda Gunning teaches at Castle Hills primary school, Scawthorpe, Doncaster
