It’s a mug’s game to second guess Middle as he flies the nest

Middle’s moving into his flat and his pal’s been helping him. I offered, but I’m more of a (s)motherpest who can’t lift much, so my role is to go round later with Youngest, sausage suppers and a duvet. Oh, and biscuits. And a few tea towels. And pillow cases. And I wonder if he needs mugs?

“OMG. No wonder he wants to live on his own,” says Youngest.

Harsh.

When we arrive the drum kit and guitars are in situ. It’s all looking amazingly tidy. Middle offers us tea and we take turns with The Mug. Knew I should have brought mugs.

He flips on his telly, balanced on an extendable arm, it can be seen from every part of the single room, er “studio flat”.

“I’m watching this nature programme a lot,” he says. “Moving art. There’s a music background, no talking, it’s very peaceful.”

“What, no David Attenborough?” says Youngest, outraged.

“Yeah, ken, legend. But sometimes it’s nice just to chill and watch animals without the talking.”

Or having to think about extinction and climate armageddon, I think, but keep quiet. Don’t want to discuss my generation’s decades-long orgy of single use plastics and treating the planet as a dustbin behaviour – the glitter, the space hoppers, the apple cores tossed from car windows for birds (what were we THINKING?).

Anyway, my companions are busy chipping in with their extensive wildlife knowledge – they really are Generation Attenborough – apart from Youngest who is Generation Permanently Attached to a Mobile and is tapping away, missing the penguins feeding their young on the telly.

“Not sure I’d LIKE to be a bird,” says Middle’s pal, beside me on the sofa. “All that swallowing and regurgitating.”

“You wouldn’t mind if you’d always been a bird,” I say. “Wouldn’t be disgusted by it.”

“Tsk, it’s women! Women!” bursts out Youngest. “Not birds!”

We all look at her.

“We’re talking about THEM,” I say, pointing screenwards. “Birds.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“But I’m delighted to hear you becoming so fe...” “What?” she says.

“Nothing.” With her, keeping the f-word (feminism) on the downlow beats preaching.

“I STILL don’t see what’s wrong with calling women burdz anyway,” says Middle. “It’s a compliment. Intelligent, brilliant navigators, survivors, strong…” Aw. He continues, smiling…“little, fluffy, tweety...”

Time’s up. Sometimes it’s good to live on your own. ■