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Andrew Curnow
Musings from the West Country

It's been a long time (again) since I updated this column, and even now I can't promise that I have such a store of anecdote & opinion that I will be able to regale you on a weekly basis. Maybe the best thing is to look on this as the first in a series of specials due in 2009, as opposed to a regular weekly series. Clearly I think I'm being very witty there, aping the current state of Doctor Who, but of course it's not an exact match and the comparison quickly falls apart. I haven't been flirting with any slender leather-clad catburglars today, for example, and nor will I move into the New Year feeling like a new man. (My wife says that she will, whatever that's supposed to mean.)

Today, at time of writing, is our daughter's twelfth birthday, and due to a temporary lapse in sanity (or at least due to my failing to conjure up a believable excuse when asked) we agreed to host a party for her and a dozen friends. A couple couldn't make it, but even so, eleven girls of Secondary School age is more than enough for anybody. There were no arguments, hardly any injuries, and very few tears, which is a pretty good report for any party I feel. More sobering, though, is the simple logic that if I have a twelve year old daughter then I must be old enough to have a twelve year old daughter. When you spend most of the time still thinking you're only about nine (as I do) it's a confusing and even shocking state of affairs.

One of the party-goers brought her mobile with her-- actually, hold that thought. This is the 21st century, and they were girls of eleven or twelve years of age. So, they ALL brought their mobiles with them. One however (the same one who so recently commanded the top of this paragraph) had her mobile set to play music for long periods of the afternoon, and particularly the song currently in the hit parade (no, I know they don't call it the hit parade any longer) by Taylor Swift, called Love Story.

It's a catchy enough song, but having caught a snatch of the video on the TV a few weeks ago, I have to say she only looks about twelve herself. One sure sign you're getting old is when you think singers are starting to look like children - another sure sign is that when you hear lyrics like, "And my daddy said stay away from Juliet" you find yourself thinking that, actually, he has a point, and siding with the dad.

I must at this point say, with the usual caveat that I like to undertake minimal research only on those occasions where 'none at all' is not an acceptable option, that I've just googled Taylor Swift (mainly to find out her name for the preceding paragraph - "girl singer, Juliet song, looks about twelve" probably isn't the most elegant prose so be grateful you're reading a second draft) and am surprised to learn that (a) she'll be twenty this December; and (b) she's not just the singer, apparently she wrote it as well. Oh, and (c) another sure sign you're getting old is when you feel slightly dodgy about looking up teenage singers on the internet.

Dragging myself back on topic though, and prior to today we were not really sure what to arrange for this party. The children are all of an age where they probably don't want to be marshalled into a neat circle to play pass the parcel (although having said that, my catering suggestion of jelly & ice-cream went down pretty darned well) but equally are still of an age where they need some kind of organising and entertaining to help avoid that awkward dip halfway through the festivities. They came for lunch first, then watched a video. As an aside, Brendan Fraser was the star and one of the girls delighted me by claiming that he wears a wig; any suggestion that virile, toned & tanned leading men (particularly those that Mrs Curnow has a hankering for) are actually aging, or even better aged, goes down well with me. And once the end credits rolled, and since the weather was warm and bright, we went to the park.

What was interesting watching the girls in the park (another sure sign - feeling the need to quickly clarify the sentence 'watching the girls in the park' before any misunderstanding takes root) was seeing the differences between them. I don't mean personalities as such - of course there were some who were chattier than others, some who were loud, one who was so quiet we genuinely didn't hear her say anything for the first four hours (but who smiled throughout bless her), even one who liked Doctor Who to the extent of having tracked down and watched some old ones (I'm assuming "the one where the Master turns into a clock" is The Keeper of Traken).

But I don't mean their personalities, rather their 'attittude'. These were girls who are in the first year at Secondary School (what used to be the first year when I was there, but was changed sometime in the past two decades to the confusing 'Year Seven'). Some of them are still clearly children, but equally clearly some don't think they are any more. Put another way, it's the difference between those who came to a birthday party wearing trousers and trainers, and those who came in dresses and heels. None of them appears to have hit puberty yet, in as far as there are any obvious signs, but nevertheless some seemed to be trying to behave as 'young adults' rather than as 'old children'.

It's not a criticism, it's just an observation, but it made me slightly sad to think that this is probably the last birthday party of this sort that Miss Curnow will get. Give it another twelve months and jelly & ice-cream and swings & slides in the park will be considered too babyish for most, if not all of them.

~~~~~

The above, the story so far, was saved onto our PC on the evening of the party, and that was two months ago, because I got that far and found myself wondering (not for the first time) what I was talking about. What is the point, as it were. We-ell... I guess it's trying to put into words the feeling I get every weekday morning when I drop Little Miss off at the school gates, and she goes straight in without looking back. I can remember being eleven, or twelve, and not for one minute thinking I was anything other than 'fully-formed'. From an adult's point of view, that age is still so young, but when you're there, when you are twelve, you think you're arrived, that you are now who you always will be.

But what, after a long time turning it over in my head, what this is really about is the fact that it's a clear sign of the end of that genuine, little girl, kiddie childhood. Although in reality we've had a dozen years with her now, it feels as if, despite all the plans and hopes and anticipation, it's come and gone in an instant (like the conception, I've just been told). Whether, as an adult, she looks back on her childhood as a happy one or not is effectively already set in stone, and although there are years to go before she really is grown up, they will be different years filled with different challenges - the days when the biggest problem facing me was trying to remember the names of the Teletubbies are gone, and the years ahead feel (to me, never mind to Little Miss herself) like a big almost insurmountable cliff-face of tears and clothes and make-up and boys. And late nights and too-early mornings and arguments over homework and slammed doors. And... well, and you get the picture.

In the final analysis, it isn't up to me to judge whether Little Miss has had a good childhood or not, that's up to her. Certainly, it's human nature to reflect on the many things that we never got round to, rather than the many things (and the many animals!) that we did. Whether it's an unspoken fear that every parent has, or whether actually I'm just absurdly paranoid, I don't know; but what keeps me from sleeping soundly are Dickensian images of a robed spectre pointing an accusatory finger at me, and a grave voice proclaiming, "You never took me to Alton Towers either!"

So in short, being so struck by the realisation that our little girl isn't a little girl any more has made me both nostalgic and regretful for the past, and anxious and fearful for the future. The following lines are from ABBA, and for once, if I may, I would like to finish on a song!