Another in the series of ‘Conversations I wish I’d never started’ with my teenage son, Rory. However, whereas conversations One and Two portrayed a mother with an addled brain versus a ‘too sharp he’ll cut himself’ son, this time I think I may just have the edge.
Conversation took place at midday today as I managed to persuade my lad he should maybe think about getting up. It’s Sunday, 6 November, the day after bonfire night.
Me: Ooh look, there’s a rocket in the front garden.
Me: There, poking out of the ground.
Son: I can’t see it.
Me: It’s right in front of you. Can’t you see the stick?
Son: Why would it have a stick?
Me: Because they come with a stick.
Son: Do they?
Me: Of course they do. Can you see it now?
Son: (peering) Oh! A rocket! A firework rocket!
Me: Yes, what did you think it was?
Son: A type of lettuce.
And he has the cheek to say I’m too middle-class!