Youngest soon gets the slang of it

Lockdown lifts and I’m dismayed, sorry I meant to say delighted, to see what look like tourists in the heart of the city. But they’re rubbing the Greyfriars Bobby statue. “Look! No! He just rubbed Bobby’s nose,” I say to Youngest.

I’m taxi-ing her and her skateboard away from what has become a prime teen hangout in the absence of pedestrians – and why not? They’re often too young and skint to get into reopening pubs, given that most work in hospitality/retail, if they still have a job, and most don’t. Give them a break.

They’re social distancing, exercising, even wearing coats as an Edinburgh winter put paid to the time-honoured traditions of young folk refusing outerwear.“so?” She says.

“So? So? Rubbing the Bobby is not allowed. It’s just been fixed. It was never a thing anyway.”

“It’s always been a thing. For luck.” “Never was.”

“I always do it when I go past,” she says. “Well you shouldn’t. Do not rub the Boaby!” “Don’t say that mother,” she says. “It totally means something else.”

“I know.”

“You don’t,” she says.

“Do.”

“What does it mean then?”

“Boaby is another word for penis. Just because I always used the correct terminology, don’t think I don’t know more words for penis than you’ve had mobile phones.”

“Bet you don’t,” she says.

And so the gauntlet is thrown.

I’m not proud of this conversation but it’s been a long lockdown, and while we do discuss more elevated topics like party manifestos and our voting system ahead of this week’s election, along with Covid and climate change, let’s be honest, there aren’t a lot of laughs there. Anyway, she’s an adult now.

Clearly I’m not, and I rattle them off as we drive down The Mound. She’s silent at first, but as I race past 20 and struggle to reach 25, she joins in and we smash it.

“Pleased with yourself?” she says. “Very. You?”

“More disappointed.” She smirks.

“But you’ll think twice now before...” “Mother! How about you tell me again how the additional member system works?”