Last year, Gothic Pre-teen fell in love. It was very Danielle Steele. We were camping (yeah, I know – ‘nother story) on a golden beach, the Antipodean sun was setting, the atmosphere of bonhomie was almost tangible … and then Jim and I turned to see our child draped over the sand in the arms of a prince whose hands, thanks to her skimpy bathers, had ample access to my beautiful daughter’s innocent, previously untouched flesh.
The needle screeched over the record, the music died. (Remember records? I don’t think there’s a 21stC equivalent.) I dragged Jim down the shoreline in the opposite direction, frantically shushing, and kept him away until they’d disentangled.
Later, on the bony ground under stinky canvas, I mused on the sorry state of my daughter’s chosen prince:
Like all twelve/thirteen-year-olds, he is very beautiful. However, his beauty holds a firm promise of future plumpness – if he’s not careful, obesity. His curly locks, so lush now, threaten to fall out entirely and the shape of his head will not enhance the billiard-ball look his father sports. The magnificent greeny-blue eyes, already tiny, will fade and further recede, leaving only an impression of too-close-togetherness. It is too, too cruel that his family owns a bulldog. Because we all know what people say about people and their pets…
This shallow description serves only to present what Gothic Pre saw: a pretty boy whose most attractive feature was the fact that he liked her.
In Ms Marple mode I quickly discovered that he is the offspring of perfectly nice parents whose wealth has allowed them to hand him the world on a silver platter. My carefully stand-offish interactions with him left me with the belief that he has accepted the platter with both hands, at the same time dropping motivation, character and any chutzpah they might once have held.
Mouth shut, counsel held, I watched and waited.
Yesterday Gothic Pre announced that she has been asked out by someone else.
‘What’s his name?’ I asked.
The metre swung from Steele to Bronte when she replied, ‘Heathcliff.’
Apparently Heathcliff told his friends, who told Gothic Pre’s friends, who told Gothic Pre, that he liked her. Communication back down the line informed Heathcliff that Gothic Pre had a boyfriend. Gothic Pre quickly re-messaged to say she has forsaken her previous prince. At last, after much rehearsal, the two met face-to-face in the library.
‘Would you like to go out?’ our new hero asked.
‘Okay,’ Gothic Pre sighed.
Done deal. Frog prince is out, romantic hero – bearing somewhat dubious name – is in.
Gothic Pre is amazed and delighted to learn that I will not only countenance a date, but that I will drive her to and from it, and walk her in and out of the venue.
What she doesn’t know is that I will be taking my frog detection monitor with me.