I'm not generally an anxious person. I leave that to other, better qualified friends and members of family (Violet, BMF, CFO, I am thinking of you in particular). But oh, man, this I hate. Today I have to get into a winged metal box with a bunch of other Eurodrones and it is making me sweaty and headachy. The chanting in my head is going:
"I don't want to die like this! In a fiery ball of death with a bunch of lawyers! I don't want my children to grow up wearing 100% acrylic rollnecks and slacks! And eating Knacki sausages and powdered mash every night! And only reading non-fiction! And becoming engineers or mathematicians!"
It's exhausting. So in case I go down in the metal box of death in a giant mass of flaming lawyers, here are my last thoughts:
CFO: I am sorry about the last few transactions on our joint account, but they are really nice shoes, and maybe you can bury them with me. Or instead of me more likely. I cannot resist buying more felt tips every time I go to the supermarket, but I have hidden them in the cupboard so the children do not use them to draw faces on your socks. Please check that I am really dead before giving my organs to anyone, though I realise that this is unlikely to apply in the fireball of death scenario. Do not let anyone in my family make laminated mass cards cum bookmarks with unflattering photos of me on. I really love you, you are ace. When you find another woman, please ensure she is nicer to you than I am. Maybe choose someone who can cook this time? Do NOT allow the children to wear clothes chosen by your mother all the time. If in doubt, ask Violet. Eat some fruit occasionally.
Lashes - Please continue to challenge your father in lots of ways with your bizarre creativity and argumentativeness. It is good for him and you will have to do my share of screwing with his head too now. He will shout at you a lot because they do a lot of shouting in his family but he loves you so so much and all he really wants is for you to occasionally give him the odd cuddle. He loves that, I can actually see him physically relax when you are next to him. Try and remind him that he does have a sense of fun when he is not busy being sensible. Put pants on his head and make him pretend to be a koala.
You are the most beautiful, delighful, clever, hilarious child. I was rather in awe and frightened of you when you were born, in all your animal perfection and I wish I had been better able just to enjoy your wonderfulness, your tiny hairy lorry driver shoulders, your slowly unfurling lashes and your silky black hair, but I was too young and a bit mental, really. But I feel we have grown up together, and the days when I used to want to put your dinner on your head (and indeed the one shameful time when I did) are long gone, most of the time. It feels like an outrageous privilege that I get to have someone as funny and independent and confident and kind and all round amazing as part of my life - how did we make you?! You are bloody amazing. I love how we can tell each other jokes and get up to badness. I recommend prog rock step dad for bad jokes, Violet for crazy cutting and sticking projects and the Space Cadette for ridiculous surreal games. All my love darling.
Fingers - Wonderful boy. You are so deliciously eccentric and serious. Even though you are way too old for my clingy fingers and lips constantly trying to stroke and groom you, I truly cannot keep away from you, you are a total physical delight to be around and you have been ever since you were born. Even though you looked like a squinting tomato, you were my squinting tomato, and I felt a completely visceral connection with you that has never weakened - you are part of me like nothing else ever has been. Your papa thinks I am a bit casual with you, but if I am, I am casual with you like I am with my leg, or my ear. You are part of me. It's a wasted day when I can't squeeze you until your pips squeak as you gravely explain some matter of vital importance to me. Please try not to worry so much. The world is basically a benign place, and you are surrounded by people who think you are bloody fantastic. If you have to hide secret stuff, I recommend the spare bedroom on the top floor, since noone ever goes up there. If your papa tries to make you eat omelette, try putting it up your sleeves, then dumping it in the bin afterwards. Amazing parrot. Be happy. Try to eat something other than biscuits now and then.
I will look like a tit tomorrow when the plane doesn't fall out of the sky, won't I?