Home Front

My Christmas present from my 24-yearold son Fred was a minibreak – with him – in Amsterdam. ‘To thank you for looking after me over the years.’

Mr Home Front helped a little financially, though I suspect this was so that he could watch uninterrupted football for two days – as well as having respite from ‘that bloody racket on B-wing’ (ie the sound of Betty and me chatting after lights out).

We nearly didn’t go because, a week before departure, we had one of our periodic rows. This latest one was sparked by him drinking the week’s supply of milk in one day, and being caught red-handed helping himself to my secret stash of Nespresso capsules. I had taken to secreting them in increasingly desperate and inventive places. Under a loose floorboard in the living room was one (discovered after just an hour). This latest hoard was behind a pile of towels in the airing cupboard.

During the ensuing argument, he exclaimed: ‘You’re a very difficult woman!’ I tried to think of some sparkling rejoinder worthy of Dorothy Parker. But the only words that came out of my mouth were ‘No, I’m not.’

‘You are,’ he insisted. ‘And it’s not just me who thinks that.’ ‘Why, who else thinks it?’ ‘Everyone.’ ‘Name names.’ ‘What is this, Nazi Germany?’ By this stage, Betty – a veteran spectator at these mother and son spats – snuck out of the room. Then Fred said: ‘That’s it. I’m done!’ This is his new favourite expression; the verbal equivalent of having the phone slammed down on you.

‘Well, I’m done with you, too!’ I shot back. ‘And if you think I’m going to

Amsterdam with you, you’ve got another think coming!’

‘Good! Because you’re no longer invited.’

And with that, he threw some clothes into his backpack and left the house.

I thought perhaps this might herald the new dawn of independent living. But a few hours later, he turned up at his paternal grandparents’ house in Kent.

We didn’t communicate for a week. Then a text came from the progeny in exile: ‘Sorry for the things I said. Are you still coming to Amsterdam with me?’ ‘Yes, please,’ I replied. We shared a hotel room 20 minutes from the centre. Fred, disturbed by the proximity of the twin beds, separated them as far as they would go and placed his side table between us. ‘No offence, but I don’t really like sleeping near other people,’ he explained.

He then inspected the bathroom, using his sleeve to open the door to prevent catching germs. It was like sharing a room with Kenneth Williams (though I agreed the noise of the minifridge warranted pulling out the plug).

At dusk, we wandered arm in arm around the Jordaan district of the city. We passed Anne Frank’s house and stopped to look up, imagining her in the secret annex. Then we ate delicious scallops at a restaurant overlooking the canal. It was delightful.

The friendly Dutch all seemed baffled by Brexit. ‘So you guys voted out?’ asked a waiter making a sad clown’s face.

‘Not us!’ I said (omitting to mention I had thought about it).

We spent hours at the Rijks and Van Gogh museums (both wonderful). I also wanted to visit a cannabis café, but he wouldn’t let me: ‘Stoned people are so boring.’ Wheeling my cabin suitcase past another licensed coffee shop on the day of departure, I tried it on again: ‘Look, their space muffins have won awards!’

‘ No. You’ll freak out on the Eurostar and I’ll be the one having to deal with it.’

Back at Vauxhall, Fred got irritable when I spent too much time staring at the ticket machine. ‘I don’t understand what to do!’ ‘What the hell? It’s easy!’ ‘Not to me, it’s not – I always get my tickets off Abu at Bookham station!’

We spent so much time bickering that we missed our train. Betty picked us up from Leatherhead after midnight, rolling her eyes when she saw us disembark from separate carriages.

But we made up back home. ‘I had a lovely time,’ I said. ‘So did I,’ said Fred. The next morning, I gave him a whole packet of coffee capsules.