My Boy Is Running The Country For Two Weeks

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You may recall a while back I mentioned that Tory Boy was offered an internship at the Houses of Parliament.  His accommodation was all arranged and then it fell through and I was lamenting that fact on my blog.  One of my sisters-in-law (a wonderful woman) emailed her company’s London branch and asked if anyone could help out.  One of her colleagues (a wonderful woman) emailed to say that her mother sometimes hosted students and she would ask her.  My sister-in-law’s colleague’s mother (a wonderful woman) said yes, that would be fine.  Even more kindly – once dates were established – my sister-in-law’s colleague’s mother’s husband was up here on business and offered Tory Boy a lift down to their home last Friday, saving him the train fare.  Unfortunately Tory Boy had the Muse gig, or he’d have gone then.

However, we packed him off on the train yesterday afternoon and he arrived safely if somewhat late, British trains doing their usual we run when we feel like it thing.  I didn’t mind because it gave him the opportunity to phone me from outside MI5 to tell me he was calling me from outside MI5.  I was an avid spy book fan in my twenties and TB knows that sort of thing excites me, particularly as I live my life vicariously through the adventures of others (like a lot of mothers).

Tory Boy phoned again when he arrived to let us know the people were lovely the house was lovely his room was lovely yes they were feeding him a roast dinner as it happened and he was right to stand firm against my motherly angst and not let me pack him a food parcel of crisps & Cornflakes.

 

We have been thinking about him all day on the first day of Parliament and hoping he got up at six okay to catch his bus, train and two tubes to Westminster.  We wouldn’t dare phone him to ask, of course, in case he was in consultation with the Prime Minister on which song is Muse’s best to date, so it was fortuitous that the accidental call Tory Boy made to Spud three days ago happened to come through as a missed call on Spud’s phone as he left school this afternoon.  Spud thought it was made today and naturally returned the call, only to get a hiss blast from his brother to ‘stop bothering me at work,’ so we know he got there okay and hasn’t been sucked in by druggies and drunks.  But he barely knows our MPs yet.

Here is a message for Tory Boy: a letter arrived today from the Lancaster area; what do you want me to do with it?

A message for everyone else: I posted that message to TB here because he doesn’t read my emails or answer my calls, me not being a woman of importance in the life of the child who ate my figure but not my food if he could avoid it. 

The Hub and I are quite excited about the kind of work he might be doing: setting policy, delivering mail, who knows?  Maybe he could work on safety laws for old people: no pensioner vaulting between the hours of ten and six would be a good one.  As we were crawling home on Saturday night, the Hub stopped – or, more accurately, didn’t start – the car to let an old couple cross the road in front of us.  There was a fence on the pavement and we were astonished to see the elderly man try to jump it from the road; fail; fall back with his legs hooked over the top so he was dangling head first backwards; and be rescued by his even more elderly wife, who gamely cradled his head in her chins until younger and more able pensioners ran to their rescue.

Whatever Tory Boy is doing down there in t’ big city, I’m sure he’s enjoying it and we won’t hear from him again.  I’d be sad, but I need his room to store my athletic equipment; I’m entering the 2032 Olympics.