Shaken, not stirred

It's a funny thing, watching kids grow up. It can seem an interminable process when you're in the middle of that whole boy-unprepared-to-meet-deoderant smelly muddle in the middle but eventually you crawl through the emotional big-feet-OMG-not-more-shoes stuff and the New-Scientist-says-the-problem-is-his-brain-is-growing-too-fast bit and discover that, like, everything's cool, yeah? And, like, they've left home already...

My dear delight is now 23 and of course I am his wicked stepmother but we are very, very fond of each other and I am extremely proud of him. He recently left the heaving metropolis of Coffs Harbour and took off for a new swanky job in Brisbane: he's a mixologist, dontcha know, and has transformed himself quite magically into a forward-thinking, go-getting young man with a professional persona and a blog of his own. I imagine crowds of hip young things will be making their way to the bar quite soon... all of which makes me feel quite old, despite VERY trendy new glasses and a hair cut. Oh well.