I’m nearly an empty nester. That conjures up conflicting images in popular culture: is it knitwear and cruises, or divorce and microdosing? Either way, there’s a notion of freedom – to take up ceramics, become a sourdough bore, do an Open University degree or, as a woman from my choir apparently did, just stand in the garden and scream.
About the screaming: I’m not actually feeling the need, for now. I have always enjoyed my sons’ progress towards autonomy. It’s not wholly selfish (though I can’t wait to live off toast and takeaways). My memories of later childhood are of impotent boredom; of waiting for real life to start.
