This column is often guilty of scratching its head in bewilderment, wondering where all the time went. But to have an actual grown-up child in their 20s is going to take some getting used to.
Daughter #1 has crammed more into her first two decades on the planet than yours truly has managed in nearly five, and she’s showing no signs of slowing down. If anything, she’s speeding up.
Three months backpacking around some of the livelier regions of South America, she worked her socks off to earn top grades in her exams and earlier this month opened up and deposited a healthy sum into a Help To Buy ISA.
Upstairs for thinking, downstairs for dancing.
This week she’s viewing houses with her merry band of student friends, to find somewhere to live in their second year at Liverpool University. These properties are a massive upgrade on the flea pit in St Oswald Street where me and my student friends spent the most carefree years of our lives in the early 90s.
It didn’t have a shower and the bath looked like something cows drink out of, but we didn’t care. It cost £23 a week and was a two-minute walk from lectures. I still dream about it now.
Anyway, daughter #1’s birthday celebrations this weekend have been neatly sliced into two separate age appropriate sections.
This week she’s going out ‘til stupid o’clock with her friends to events such as (checks internet) Bongo’s Bingo - a cross between a 90s rave and, er, a night at the bingo. And before that, just to get limbered up, they’re off to something called S*** Indie Disco, which modestly refers to itself on its website as “The Best Student Indie Night In Liverpool”.
Last time she went, she said they played Arctic Monkeys’ Favourite Worst Nightmare album from start to finish.
That’s impressive. And if I was 30 years younger, I’d be first in the queue.
Then, once the worst of their hangovers have worn off, we’re taking everyone out for dinner to one of the city’s finest restaurants - chosen by her, paid for by us.