I adjusted my red spotty headband. Was it too young for me? Or did it suggest I was ‘young at heart’?
My confidence was feeling bruised after what my son Dylan had said… ‘You know you’re too old to be going to a festival, don’t you?’
Dylan had raised his eyebrows just high enough to suggest both horror and embarrassment.
‘I’m not too old! Paul McCartney played Glastonbury at 80.’
‘Yes, but he’s a legend and you’re not,’ said Dylan, his 16-year-old face frowning.
He was so beautiful and young and still my little boy, so I couldn’t get angry with him. His older sisters, who were at university and leading their own exciting lives, probably wouldn’t be so rude. Or I hoped they wouldn’t.
‘Did you want to come? Is that it?’ I asked, suddenly realising he might feel left out.
‘Not with you. That would be embarrassing!’ he said, looking horrified.
‘OK. What about with your friend Billy?’
Dylan considered this. ‘Hmm, maybe.’
‘I’ll get Charli to sort out
