This Boy

Well, it's ten past ten at night here, and This Boy and I have spent the best part of the last hour snuggled up with the light blue suedey-fluff throw rug and half a bag of pineapple lumps on the couch; poring over library books about guitar history and famous musicians and technical know-how of polishing and filing various guitar parts, and discussing which of his friends and musicians owns which type of guitar; and rather more specifically, lusting after the Fender Stratocaster - towards which This Boy is saving every one of his paper-delivery-boy-pennies.

He's mooching off towards his quilted bed now, and as he kisses me goodnight, he looks at me earnestly and says, "You know, Mum, my favourite thing to do is play my guitar. It's my life." to which I teasingly reply, "Except kissing Mummy," and he looks deep into my soul and says, "Sometimes even more than that."

Which it possibly is. This Boy, who spent the whole of last year avoiding my Public Displays of Affection, has this year become very comfortable with initiating hugs and kisses and iLOVEyous with me again. This Recently Turned Eleven Boy has a style all his own - wearing his sister's cast-off black skinny jeans with his friend's hand-me-down white linen shirt, and a tie from the seventies dress-ups collection to his birthday party in the forest; completing the look with an old brown leather jacket and sunglasses, and his heely skate shoes. This Boy is as comfortable turning flips every which way on the trampoline as he is with a new-found delight in Encyclopedia Brown mysteries. This Boy has depth and resonance and stability and passion, and gentleness and serenity and all around hip coolness.

Oh, he's sneaked out of bed again and is now soaking up a music video with Daddy - it's Guns'n'Roses' Paradise City which, incidentally, has been on our car airwaves all week. And they're chatting all rock stuff and muso stuff and style tips and the snake-move - "The coolest move in the whole world," says This Boy. And now his sister has joined in. "They even have Emo Fringes," she says, aghast. "Well, Bemo." Daddy looks up foncusedly, "They call them 'bemos' if they're blonde?" and as she nods I wonder at our totally different worlds, and whether his parents' unteenageyness will estrange This Boy during his next ten years? And the words immediately float in to my head, "Actually, no." This Boy'll continue to share the most-loved parts of his world with us. Like guitars and rock music. And hugs with Mummy too, I hope.