Susannah woke up distressed this morning. Granny (when else do both parents get a lie-in?) went to her; apparently she couldn't wake Noah, and decided that he must be dead. He wasn't - just stubborn about waking up, like his mother - but, what do you make of a three-and-a-half year old in such a circumstance? Where does the assumption, "My brother is dead," as opposed to, "My brother is a heavy sleeper," come from? And, once it is clear that he is alive and well, does one ask her about her feelings, or let it pass? Parenting is a mystery at times.
Jo and I went into the city centre on the train, where I finally had to come to terms with the fact that I will never again get into the kilt my parents gave me as an eighteenth birthday present (how does a kilt shrink 5 inches at the waist, and even more around the backside?! Okay, denial is not completely dealt with; one step at a time...), and it was time to replace it.
On the platform returning home, a group of four teenage Goths; their conversation all discussing vampires and trying to remember the last time they didn't get drunk at the weekend. Everyone needs community, and community can probably only happen at the edges of 'mainstream' culture (although the downside of Goth, and other teenage - and potentially any other - grouping is the tendency to opt-out of, instead of reach-out to, the wider society in which it is located). Is it inevitable that the desire to create counter-cultural community declines with age? The need for it certainly doesn't! I wonder what expressions of community my own children will embrace when they are teenagers, and beyond.