Casulties

My teenagers have long memories. When I announced I was off to B&Q to get a replacement bulb for the shaving light for the downstairs bathroom, there was much rolling of eyes. I think bets were placed because when I came back with yet more plants and pots, money changed hands and there was much muttering.

The Streptocarpus, which quite frankly sounds like a condition requiring antibiotics, and the Calathea haven't survived my ministrations. On the other hand, the orchids, the african violets, ivy etc. seem to be doing very well. They haven't died off yet. It's a fine balance to be had, watering. It seems I have two modes: desert and tropical downpour; and for some reason some plants just don't like that. Fussy buggers.

Despite that, I'm very pleased with my mini-home jungle. Boy, is bitching that having a shower in the morning requires a cutlass and pith helmet. I don't know what's wrong with the teenager; here I am providing him with cheap adventures. After all, flights to the Amazon aren't cheap and there are the mosquitoes to contend with out there.

Todays purchase was a large devil's ivy for my bedroom (as well as some smaller ones and some half-priced orchids). I've a mind to wrap some fairy lights around it too. It's all very odd, but I'm going with it. Even if my credit card is shivering in the corner of a darkened room, whimpering and rocking. Poor thing.

Pride!

It was a late Sunday evening in February, when Boy came back from his dad's. I was sprawled on the couch and Boy came and sat next to me.

Our conversation started out as the one every mother dreads.

"You will still love me, won't you?" He started.

"Of course I love you." Says I with a sinking heart.

"I mean, you'll love me, whatever..." his voice trailed off.

Oh dear Goddess, thought I. Take a deep breath and face the disaster.

"I mean, you will..."

"Boy, it's late. You have school in the morning, I have to go to work. Spit it out!"

"I'm gay." He says in a small voice.

"Oh, is that all," I say, relief pouring through me. "I thought you were going to say something awful."

My Boy. My wonderful, bright Boy.

It's a feeling words do not adequately express. I am so proud of him. It has taken awhile to post about this, because it's such a personal thing. We have talked about the fluidity of sexuality at this age and that he may change in the future. At the end of the day, it's who he is, and all that matters is how much I love him and how proud I am of him.

Could I have been more proud when he marched with the Norwich Pride this summer? No, I really don't think so.

Pretending to be heterosexual would have been the easiest course for him. But no. My Boy has the courage to be himself. There are adults of my age who deny themselves and I am saddened for them.

This is a new world for us both. I don't have the gay best friend to guide us, and actually that's fine. The Norwich Pride has welcomed us both. It's meant I've had a lot to adjust to, after all, but it's all good. This is probably the best time in this society to be gay. What has been amazing is the support of our friends and family. His dad loves him to bits.

It is such a shame that coming out is such a heartbreaking experience for so many people. This is a wonderful world in which we live and there should be enough space for everyone. There has been so much I've taken for granted. For me to walk down the street, holding hands with the one I love. I can't imagine what it must be like, not to be able to express my love.

In a way it's quite ironic. I am now the black sheep of my family. The marginalised. My birth mother is gay, my son is gay. I'm the only heterosexual. Ach, the shame!

Adventures in my Garden

While I was indulging in a naughty smoke in my garden the other day, I saw:

3 bats chasing a moth

and

2 baby frogs (grown from my very own pond)

How blessed am I?

Driving Miss Daisy

Did I mention I now have a car? After giving up my treasured Renault Megane in 2003 so I could persue my writing, I am once again behind the wheel. One of the directors of the company, who asked me to become Emergency Receptionist, has lent me one of his cars. It's a Lipstick Red Toyota MR2. For the next few months, I get to call it mine.

I haven't driven in 5 years. Mind you, that hasn't stopped me voicing my opionions from the passenger's seat. But there's a whole world of difference between being a stroppy passenger commenting on the skills of the driver next to you and all around you, and being The Driver.

Every car has a personality, little quirks that making driving that car a unique experience. When I picked up the car with the Director, it would be true to say, I was bricking it. I drove back to Norwich very gingerly. I tried to get a feel for the car, who I've now named Red, and get a feel for driving again. The driving again was not as big a problem as I thought it would be. I can still guage distances and get a feel for speed, though I'm going to have to be very, very careful because she is a sneaky one. Acceleration is smooth, and effortless, one minute you're waiting at the roundabout, next you're on the other side, wondering where the BMW who'd been hogging your rear had gone. Oh yeah, he's still back there. Thirty seems like floating, and the only difference between 30 and 80 is the position of the hand on the speedometer. She's not keen on round the city driving, gets impatient and heavy; open roads for her, and for me.

I had forgotten the pure pleasure that comes with driving. The freedom. When I have to give her back, I'm going to have to get me one of those. I know I should think about being sensible, but you know what? Fuck that.