I’m not usually given to showing off, and we all know that there’s a certain someone loudly claiming all the bragadocious energy in the Universe at the moment. But I heard Barack Obama say recently that if your parents aren’t bragging on you, then you’re in trouble.
I was taken with this idea, and am going to seize the opportunity, since my boy Felix has been impressing me of late.
He’s a delight. About to take A levels, and with designs of going on to University to invent the next gadget you didn’t know you needed but which will change your life, and probably the whole world, and hopefully the climate, he can also do laundry.
He’s kind. He’s funny. He loves hot chocolate. He lives for music and isn’t afraid to perform an electronic DJ set of his own writing/devising wearing a snapback* and a shabby oversized jumper, wreathed in dry ice and effortlessly cool, in front of an audience of bewildered la-di-da parents at the school concert.
He’s an outer London kid, used to trains and tubes and buses and connections, and getting used to Camden market, late nights, beer and the way of girls.
What a fine young man. I’m prepared to believe the cigarettes weren’t his.
*snapback: a peaked hat. There is literally no difference between a snapback and a baseball cap. Discuss. (Believe me, we have.)