(I’ve just spent more time than I’ll admit trying to remember a password I use daily only for it to reveal itself through random keyboard tapping long after I’d given up and considered mopping the floor of the workpod while my subconscious mind did a search.)
My children do this to me too. Not so much Eldest, who mainly appears reassuringly the same in appearance, or at least is cunning enough to cover whatever ravages he’s been subjecting his body to with a big coat, and Youngest’s recent transformations have concentrated on the head region. This week she warned me the hair was going from pink to purple, so I was sufficiently braced and her reappearance with silvery lilac locks at least two feet longer didn’t wrongfoot me at all. “Gorgeous.”
But Middle, he’s like a chameleon to me. I’m sure it’s a parenting fail not to recognise your child in the street or by their walk – maybe it’s the skateboard. But it’s become a thing. Youngest will say “There he is” and I’ll still be scanning the…
