My first job out of university was on reception at some blue-chip company full of (probably) terrible suits, but that didn’t matter because the only person who ever spoke to me was the other receptionist, and she was great. She had this kid who was a rascal, and one day the police called to say he’d been nicked for some rascally behaviour. “To his credit,” they said, “he doesn’t have any previous convictions.” She replied: “Well, give him a chance – he’s only 13.”
Her voice popped into my head the other day when I was worrying about my daughter, and how non-alcohol-curious she is. Well, give her a chance – she’s only 13. But my nieces are the same way, and they’re older. My sister and I decided a while ago that this was our doing: they’d taken one look at us, or to be accurate, a million looks at us, and decided the Aperol bounce wasn’t for them. And while I’m almost immune to parental guilt, I did feel fantastically bad about the idea that I might, just by enjoying it too much, have put my kids off alcohol.
