I am staring into the greying waters of the evening's washing-up, turning over in my mind the problems I am having with the final draft of my manuscript. Suddenly I experience a strange sensation around my waist: something has encircled me and is tightening its grasp. I shriek.
"Mu-uum! It's only me," says a voice.
I twist my head round to see Daughter, who has now released me. There is a distinctly wounded expression on her face.
"What were you thinking of?" I demand. "Creeping up on me like that - you scared me!"
"I was only giving you a hug," Daughter protests. "I'm just, like, happy?" she explains, looking anything but, "And I had this urge to cuddle you. Cos I, like, love you. I guess."
I am filled with a deep sense of suspicion. Daughter never hugs family members, least of all me. And she never, ever says "I love you". She reserves such overt displays of affection for her female friends and performs them in the manner of an actress in an American soap, flinging her arms high in the air and encircling her victim while squealing loudly.
The hug I have just received was entirely different: it was a genuine warm snuggle, designed to convey feelings of true love and affection.
"What has happened to bring on this sudden rush of feeling for your mother?" I ask.
Daughter shifts uncomfortably and blushes, then hands me a piece of paper.
"We got our Activities Week choices confirmed today," she says.
The clouds part, the light dawns; all becomes clear. I open the letter. Daughter has got her first choice of trip - to go to Barcelona in July for a whole week. I am asked to "please return the acceptance slip with a deposit of £XXX as soon as possible" and am thanked for my "continued support". Support of what? I wonder. Looking at the itinerary which includes shopping (of all things), I am assuming they mean "support of the Spanish economy". I doubt very much that my "support" has anything to do with furthering my daughter's education.
"Well, I'm glad you're happy," I say, signing the slip and handing it back to Daughter, my arms out to hug her in return.
She takes the piece of paper and then backs away from me with a freaked-out expression. "OK, calm down," she says, putting a hand up in defence. "There's no need to get all touchy-feely on me."
Of course, how stupid of me. She doesn't love me that much.
"Mu-uum! It's only me," says a voice.
I twist my head round to see Daughter, who has now released me. There is a distinctly wounded expression on her face.
"What were you thinking of?" I demand. "Creeping up on me like that - you scared me!"
"I was only giving you a hug," Daughter protests. "I'm just, like, happy?" she explains, looking anything but, "And I had this urge to cuddle you. Cos I, like, love you. I guess."
I am filled with a deep sense of suspicion. Daughter never hugs family members, least of all me. And she never, ever says "I love you". She reserves such overt displays of affection for her female friends and performs them in the manner of an actress in an American soap, flinging her arms high in the air and encircling her victim while squealing loudly.
The hug I have just received was entirely different: it was a genuine warm snuggle, designed to convey feelings of true love and affection.
"What has happened to bring on this sudden rush of feeling for your mother?" I ask.
Daughter shifts uncomfortably and blushes, then hands me a piece of paper.
"We got our Activities Week choices confirmed today," she says.
The clouds part, the light dawns; all becomes clear. I open the letter. Daughter has got her first choice of trip - to go to Barcelona in July for a whole week. I am asked to "please return the acceptance slip with a deposit of £XXX as soon as possible" and am thanked for my "continued support". Support of what? I wonder. Looking at the itinerary which includes shopping (of all things), I am assuming they mean "support of the Spanish economy". I doubt very much that my "support" has anything to do with furthering my daughter's education.
"Well, I'm glad you're happy," I say, signing the slip and handing it back to Daughter, my arms out to hug her in return.
She takes the piece of paper and then backs away from me with a freaked-out expression. "OK, calm down," she says, putting a hand up in defence. "There's no need to get all touchy-feely on me."
Of course, how stupid of me. She doesn't love me that much.
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