We were at work last night when a panicked text arrived from Oliver.
Written in capital letters, it said: HELP!!!!!!
It turned out that the activity planned for Sunday was a whole-school trip to watch Newcastle Falcons playing rugby.
Oliver thought that this would be tedious and did not want to go.
He reinforced his point with a picture of a pile of poo.
He suggested that we left work and rushed across to Yorkshire after school this afternoon to collect him. We could return him tomorrow, once the rugby was safely concluded.
This was awful.
I love Oliver very much but we have had a month so financially disastrous as to be just a bit scary. Today is the first weekend in March, which is when all of the caravan sites reopen, and hence we are just beginning to be busy with people wanting to get in taxis again. We have some hope that this weekend we might not be in deficit for the first time this year.
If we had got to go to Yorkshire for Oliver and then spend ages arranging adequate supervision and nutrition and laundry it would completely diminish the chances of profit again.
Mark was entirely unsympathetic. He said that fresh air and rugby were perfectly acceptable man things and that Oliver needed not to be weedy.
I said that he was our sad little boy and that we should rush over and tuck him under our wings and reassure him that he was our little treasure.
Mark said that I needed not to be weedy as well.
We discussed it on and off all evening.
In the end I wrote to the headmaster and the housemaster and the matron and asked if there was anything else Oliver could do instead of going to watch horrible rough rugby in the cold.
We crawled into bed just before five.
The telephone rang at half past eight.
It was Oliver wondering if we had managed to organise an escape from rugby.
I groaned and rubbed my eyes and said that I would try and talk to school, but if nothing else could possibly be arranged then we would get him.
It took ages to get back to sleep afterwards.
The telephone rang again at ten.
It was Oliver’s housemaster who said that fresh air and rugby were important man things and that Oliver needed not to be weedy. He said they had booked a grandstand and organised tuck and crisps and hot chocolate and thermal underwear, and that all of Oliver’s friends were going and he would have a brilliant time learning to sing rugby songs and being tough and manly.
I was sure that he was right. Numbers One and Two Daughters both play rugby, and neither of them could be accused of being weedy.
I said that as long as somebody looked after him and made sure he was happy and loved and all right then that would be fine.
The housemaster said words which meant that I needed not to be such a weed as well, except he is not my husband, so they were more polite, and said that Oliver could choose the Saturday night film which would make him feel better.
This reassured me a bit although not completely and I crawled back in bed next to Mark and worried.
Mark got up and made coffee. I got up and wrote a long apologetic email to Oliver in which I said that I loved him very much but that rugby was an important part of masculinity and that all he had to do was wait another few days and I would come and rescue him for exeat next weekend.
He hasn’t replied.
Maybe he thinks I’m a weed as well.
