18

Our son is 18 today. It's a benchmark of an age, a big loud number. Hovering on the brink of manhood, he's down at the posts waiting to canter over the horizon. Yet still he asks for extra ‘lunch’ money, doesn’t wash his own pants, and needs a brass band to get him up every morning. He's done the UCAS thing, and is holding on tight as the A-Level rollercoaster rattles along. It's not a journey he's enjoying.

Since returning to Britain from Singapore at the age of 12 J has been on many rollercoasters. He’s settled down now as the Londoner I suspected he might become. You can ask him where he's from and he’ll tell you with clarity. But he couldn’t answer that question when we arrived back at Heathrow in 2017.

I disagree with the overused, beige platitude about kids being 'resilient'. If they are, it's only because adults require them to be (usually because we're putting them through something uncomfortable). So yes our son survived, but not without several lost turns in the wilderness. Now watching him semi-swot for exams that measure one per cent of the totality of his knowledge, I reckon he's had his fair share of training. Just not the sort that our education system requires.

Anyway, that's enough about J. I'll show him this blog and if you're reading it, it will be because he's given me permission to post. But he'll want no more time in the spotlight. Shall we have a bit more about me at his age? It's my blog, after all.

Recently I met with a friend from university, Louise. We see each other roughly every decade. We made friends on day one, when I went to explore our dorm corridors and found Lou sitting in a big double room, “Tusk” blaring out from her stereo. When we left Halls, we went on to rent a house with a big crowd, and those mates got me through my slightly uncertain college days.

Having quickly realised I was on the wrong course, I spent four years heading down a confusing rabbit hole, barreling towards a skills cul-de-sac that I hope my son doesn't experience. As I watch him struggle to get onto the course he thinks he wants, in a college he thinks he wants to attend, I wonder what advice I might have given myself back then…

For me it began with the wrong UCAS choice, and a stutter. I’d had one all through my childhood and into my early twenties (I kicked it off, somehow, though it comes back if I’m tired or stressed – don’t ask me questions at funerals). So although I dearly loved English I had a phobia of reading out loud, making that subject a no-go area. Instead I chose Fine Art, something I was also 'good' at.

Self portrait aged 20, etching.
Hull c.1989.

For four years I banged out etchings and screenprints on an increasingly literal theme, steadfastly ignoring the abstraction that was en vogue at the time. Anyone seen Tony Hancock in The Rebel? In my second year I recreated this scene, yielding a series of utterly rubbish paintings that went down surprisingly well. That ridiculous thumbs-up from my tutors capped my opinion of the course. In my final year I focused on a series of cartoons, mixing screenprints with writing, and scraped a 2:2 by virtue of an OK thesis on Realism.

Thanks to a strong liking of my Mum's green Olivetti from an early age, I also knew how to type. At college I had a side-line in typing out friends' essays for beer money. Meanwhile, summers were spent in London taking internships on magazines. I was blessed to know and love a family with several siblings in the world of publishing, all of whom gave me opportunities to write press releases and make tea for amazing journalists.

When I left art school I put my typing skills to use, finding a job as a secretary in a features agency. Thanks to the gentle support of my boss (it only takes one helpful person, thanks Mike), I wriggled sideways into the editing and writing departments, and the rest can be found on my bio. I was and still am in awe of the publishing process. It sparks an excitement in me that the art world could not (and won't ever) match, much as I love a swing round a gallery on a lazy Sunday.

I followed a path I could not have predicted, on so many levels. I did not end up with a farmer, which was my plan aged 10. Instead I married a man who loved school and exams and maths. (“An accountant!" my Mum would tell people when we first met, amazed that I knew people from outside of our family’s arty world.)*

When I think of giving my son advice it goes something like: "Be interested, try your best, pay your way, make choices that fit, try not to worry, always see the funny side, don’t forget your keys." The rest is up to him and the choices he doesn't make, and the people who cross his path for better or worse.

PS For comparison, here’s a birthday post from nine years ago. He’s still good with the quotes.

PPS And because he loves music, here’s a little anthem from his 14s, when we head-bobbed to this guy in the kitchen (pre Juice WRLD and all that).

PS Ignore the silly “accountancy” quote, I did.