Yesterday evening my daughter begged for her boyfriend to come over. ‘But it’s Saturday night,’ I said, ‘and they’ll be nobody else at home.’ My teenager glared at me. The words being left alone together hung, unspoken, in the air. ‘Don’t you trust me?’ she snapped.
So we went out. And trusted them. It’s a funny old world. You can torment yourself with a whole list of things that will happen while you’re out. Apart from the sex-drugs-and-rock’n’roll thing, there’s also parties put on Facebook and coming home to find a house trashed; trying out driving your car whilst under-aged/unlicensed/uninsured; or even drinking your cocktail cabinet dry (although in our case it contains just the one bottle of ancient Egyptian vodka – at least it did when I last looked). But never in a million years could I have guessed what was really going on while I sat and attempted concentration on a film called The Five Year Engagement. And no, I can’t tell you what the film was about because of said brain being elsewhere. But it did feature a giant pink bunny making the odd (very odd) appearance and an unappetising love interest in the form of Rhys Evans. Anyway. Back to what was really going on at home.
Okay. As soon as the key went in the front door, I was aware of deathly silence. And a very funny smell. Wacky backy? No. Gas. And I’m not talking about the dog’s rear end. This was British Gas. And lots of it. I ran into the kitchen, turned off an unlit burner and then threw open the windows and doors. ‘Don’t turn on any lights,’ I screamed to Mr V, who naturally did just that. Fortunately the house didn’t implode.
The teenager and the boyfriend were upstairs. In her bedroom. Blissfully unaware we were home. Or of leaking gas. Or anything other than the no-good they were up to. Yes. My daughter had pierced her boyfriend’s ear. ‘Is that all?’ I hear you sigh. Well I’m not entirely sure how well this is going to sit with the boyfriend’s parents. Firstly – and no offence to any men out there with pierced ears/lips/noses/eyebrows/tongues/nipples – I hate piercings on men. Okay, if it dongs their gong, all well and good. But I don’t like it. And I have a feeling that the boyfriend’s parents don’t like it. So not only are they going to be a teeny bit cross, but it’s not exactly going to endear my daughter to them either.
And the reason for the gas? Because my daughter had ‘sterilised’ a needle from my sewing box over the hob. Except she’d had it in her head that you gassed a needle rather than held it in a flame. So much for all the extra private science lessons we’re paying for. And such was their eagerness to get on with the job, she neglected to turn the gas off afterwards.
Still, I must look on the bright side. The house is still standing. And nobody is hurt. Other than the boyfriend’s sore ear. Which reminds me. How much do pirates pay to get their ears pierced? A buccaneer...