In Good Company: A Stay-Out-All-Night Teenager
...Then when he eventually does drag is wasted form to bed, he’s moaning and groaning in his sleep all night long. Let’s face it, all the evidence points to that fat bloated bitch up the road, but it doesn’t matter how I plead with him, one whiff of her exclusive scent and he becomes her slave...
Enid Blackburn tells of a "problem'' teenager.
I heard him crawl into the back porch at dawn. Naturally all the doors were locked and bolted, but he had been warned.
Of course, I’ve known something was up for some time now – women sense these things. Nothing you can put your finger on, but he’s been so distant lately, walking over to the window in the middle of my conversations or pretending sleep when I kick him from my half of the bed.
When I think of all the evenings I rubbed his legs until my glowing palm would have pressed trousers, because his joints had this habit of seizing up when he sat in one position too long.
I didn’t notice any joint stiffness this morning when he galloped the back steps two at a time. Once he was ever pestering me to go out with him, he seemed happy, nay boyish, in my company.
Nowadays he’s out of the house, off on his own every occasion possible without so much as a glance in my direction.
The other night I felt so perturbed by his behaviour I even contemplated following him, but he was down the path out of sight. His stiff joints accelerating like an old Chaplin movie; unfortunately I chose the night following my keep-fit class and my displacements were still inflamed – I couldn’t catch him.
I suppose it’s partly my own fault he is seeking solace elsewhere. I know I have slipped into the habit of pleading a headache or telling him to get lost when he starts acting playful.
Hopefully this phase will burn itself out, but it’s the children I feel sorry for, they are so ashamed when the other kids gloat about his nocturnal carryings on.
The company he keeps leaves a lot to be desired. They’re a shaggy-haired ungroomed lot, used to living rough and eating out of tins. He used to prefer my home cooking, mention dinner now and he rushes to the door. It’s - excuse me while I grab a tissue – it’s heartbreaking. I could stand him sneaking off without warning the minute he opens his eyes, if he didn’t stay out so late. At his age, I mean, it’s so worrying.
Then when he eventually does drag is wasted form to bed, he’s moaning and groaning in his sleep all night long. Let’s face it, all the evidence points to that fat bloated bitch up the road, but it doesn’t matter how I plead with him, one whiff of her exclusive scent and he becomes her slave.
This morning when I saw his once young and active body, now as ravaged as an ex-president’s, the draught from the kitchen door was gently wafting the pendulous flap that used to be his chin. I noticed the sunken eyes and sagging lips, once full and moist, but now a dry and fraying wreath for his bad teeth. Like it or not, I decided it had to stop.
I turned the key in the lock, tied him to the chair and told him the facts of life and how if he wished to remain, he had better alter his ways. Believe it or not, he collapsed in a slobbering heap at my feet, it was disgusting.
Dragging oneself out of bed to let in late night teenagers is hard enough to bear, but when our teenage dog is wailing to be let in each dawn, then howling to be let out the minute you re-kindle the sheets – believe me it is definitely no joke!
