Do You Wanna New Pair Of Shoes?

Was in a JD Wetherspoons in St Albans yesterday, for the life of me I cannot remember the name of the place, drinking a glass of Shiraz and composing myself after a difficult day at work. No sooner had I sat down when a mother, haggard and with the expression that had been battered into submission, sat within listening distance. Her daughter, who was no more than sixteen sat opposite her, insolent and wearing the current uniform for hip middle class English white girls, black tights under cut back denim shorts with worker’s boots without the laces and a choice of any top from Primark. The daughter, soon introduced as Emma, sucked noisily on a coke, rattling the ice cubes around as they began a debate with only one likely winner.

It appeared that Emma had recently started dating a boy called Charlie and was insisting that they knew everything there was to know about each other, judging by Emma’s obtuseness that was probably not a lot. Emma insisted that Charlie was to stay the night on Saturday because they were going to a party and there was no way of him getting home, I presumed he lived in the Outer Hebrides. Her mother then meekly responded with ‘well what about Charlie’s parent’s?’ Yeah that’s right! What about Charlie’s parents! Emma continued to slurp at her coke then astounded me by announcing that she ‘was old enough to have a boy staying over in her room and anyway he was nice and polite and very mature for his age and wouldn’t do anything.’ Little slut! So he’s gonna stay in your bed all night harbouring an almighty erection and he’s gonna be a good boy? Yeah right. Emma persisted though, ‘Mum, I’m not a slag (yes you are), he is gonna stay over and that’s final’, and that was final because mum responded with ‘come on, finish up your drink and we’ll go and buy you a pair of shoes.’ Emma even had the cheek to ask her mum ‘how much money’ did she have to spend on shoes! As I said, she was barely sixteen.

It then occurred to me that Emma’s mother is representative of a generation that has turned itself into an army of servants and secretaries for our children. It’s disturbing. There are so many appointments and birthdays and other special occasions and there are the favourite foods and Jesus there are the sleepovers and the strops and the TV reality shows and not forgetting the clinical obsession with image and cyber persona and is it me or is there an incredible need for girls, from when they reach puberty, to dress like prostitutes at any available given moment?

With coke slurped to completion Emma left first, with mum picking up all their shopping bags, following slavishly behind.