Tim Dowling: tour of duty

http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2014/dec/20/tim-dowling-son-has-girlfriend

Version 0 of 1.

The autumn tour of the band I’m in is over: 17 dates, finishing in Scotland. The weather is wet and windy; it’s not a good day to be travelling in a high-sided vehicle. Progress, however, is swift.

At some point north of Birmingham, I try to ring my wife to say I’ll be home for supper, but she doesn’t answer. I prepare myself for the depressing prospect of a dark and empty house.

Somewhere east of Oxford, I receive a text from my wife that says, “Where u at bitch”, which I take as a sign that a member of the younger generation has commandeered her phone. I text back my coordinates. “Get here quick” is the only reply I receive.

An hour later, I’m standing on the front step, listening to the shouting on the other side of the door. When I enter the house, it gets much, much louder. In the kitchen I find 10 people sitting around the table.

Such is everyone’s engagement with the subject at hand that at first no one notices me. Eventually, somebody points and a cry goes up. All head turns in my direction.

“Where have you been?” shouts someone.

“Scotland,” I say.

“What did you bring?” shouts someone else, pointing at the shopping bag in my hand.

“Sausages from Cumbria,” I say. “And wine from the M40.”

I am immediately relieved of my wine. I have to retrieve a chair from the sitting room in order to sit down. Someone pours me a glass, and the subject at hand is returned to. I look around the table at the assembled cast of characters: the oldest, I see, has returned from university, with entourage; Constance is here, and there are several people present who may have once been lunch guests. It’s possible, I think, that we’re having a Christmas party that I wasn’t told about. Or maybe my wife has started operating a B&B. I catch her eye and raise an interrogative eyebrow.

“I’m very tired,” she says.

My bottle doesn’t make it all the way round the table; the oldest is sent out for more.

“I can’t spend the night,” Constance says.

“You’re not allowed to spend the night,” my wife says. The oldest one’s girlfriend sits down next to me.

“Why do you never write that your son has a girlfriend?” she says.

“That’s his business,” I say. “And yours, I guess.” Someone starts cooking my Cumbrian sausages.

“What you need to do,” the oldest one’s girlfriend says, “is take a selfie with me and then tweet, ‘My son has a girlfriend’”.

“Why?” I ask.

“Because it will piss my friend Aaron off,” she says.

I don’t understand why pissing Aaron off is good, but I don’t ask. I hand her my phone, and she takes the picture.

“What do I write?” I say.

“I’ll do it,” she says.

The oldest one fills up my glass. The youngest one appears at my elbow. “So where were you again?” he says.

“Scotland,” I say. “It was great, but the weather…”

“You’re not spending the night!” my wife shouts.

“That’s what I just said!” Constance shouts.

I look down at my phone and see that I have more than 20 replies to my most recent tweet, a picture of a young girl and a weary old man captioned: “My son has a girlfriend. Well done to him.” The first reply I look at is from Aaron, who doesn’t seem that pissed off. The second one I look at says, “it’s weird for both your son & her that u did this”.

I look round the room and think: you don’t know the half of it.