Home Front

Last month, I came down to find, for the first time in his life, 24-year-old son Fred up and about before everyone else. Furthermore, he seemed to be in high spirits, singing snatches of HMS Pinafore while – miracle of miracles – he actually made me a cup of tea.

‘You’re in a good mood,’ I said apprehensively.

‘Yes, mother, I have a new job. I’m going to teach English to the Chinese!’

I was delighted for him. He was unhappy in his former job. But now Fred seemed back to his cheery old self. I told him that I would naturally be sorry to see him disappear to the other side of the world, but perhaps he would make lots of tax-free dosh, and be able to pay off his university fees.

‘Have you got enough for the air fare?’ I added. ‘I’m sure we can help out.’

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Fred. ‘Your air fare to China.’ ‘I’m not going to China! I’ll be teaching them from here, won’t I?’ ‘Here?’ ‘This house. I’ll be Skyping them.’

Fred’s office is in the living room. He appropriated the old Victorian mahogany table, turning the family photos that adorned it to the wall, so that at first I thought we had a poltergeist.

Through this tiny portal onto the Far East, via his laptop, he teaches up to 15 pupils a day. His employers expect him to wear a yellow polo shirt. They also wanted their company’s logo emblazoned on the wall behind him. But Fred told them his landlord wouldn’t allow this. ‘I’m not Rigsby,’ I said. ‘I could hardly say “mother”, could I?