‘Look at this,’ says Dylan as we battle our way towards him. ‘I definitely need one of these.’
I look at where he is pointing. ‘Absolutely,’ I agree, pulling out my list. ‘I’ve got duvet cover written down here. But these are just the show rooms. I think we’re better off waiting until we get down to the next floor – then you can see all the choices and we can find something that’s practical and cheap. You don’t want anything that’s going to be too high-maintenance to wash.’
‘No, not that. This.’ Dylan moves forward and picks up a cactus plant. ‘This will look brilliant in my new room!’
‘That’s actually adorable,’ says Scarlet, joining him. ‘They’ve got them in three different coloured pots – you should get one of each. But Mum’s right – this floor is boring. Let’s get down to the good stuff on the next floor.’
‘I don’t think—’ I start, but my words are lost in the air because it’s as if someone has just announced the start of a race. Dylan and Scarlet are off, bounding across the room, pointing things out to each other as they go but never breaking their stride.
I dash after them, pushing my way through the other shoppers. This is not what I had envisaged in the slightest. I thought we would wander through the room displays and I could show Dylan my vision for how his room at university should look. And then maybe we’d get a coffee and perhaps a plate of meatballs before making informed, sensible choices about our purchases. I did not think that I’d be spending the morning hurtling after my children while they witter on about cacti. We are here on serious business and I can feel myself starting to get prickly.
I catch up with them at the moving walkway. Dylan flashes me a big grin and beside him, Scarlet is beaming with happiness.
‘There’s so much to get,’ he tells me. ‘My room’s going to look dope.’
‘Totally,’ agrees Scarlet. ‘Plus, I’ve seen one or two things that I really need too.’
So that’s why she’s here. I must really be losing my game for not seeing that coming.
‘We’re here to kit Dylan out for uni,’ I remind her.
‘Oh yeah, of course.’ She nods earnestly and then puts her hand on my arm. ‘They’re only tiny things and I can always pay for them myself. Or just wait until it’s my turn to leave home.’
I know what she’s doing. Of course I do, I’m not a compete imbecile. It still doesn’t stop my heart from crumpling in my chest at the thought of her being gone, along with Dylan.
‘Well, perhaps I can get you something,’ I tell her. ‘As long as it’s cheap.’
We step off the walkway and Dylan rushes across to where the trollies are parked.
‘We’re going to do this sensibly and logically,’ I tell them both as we move towards the first set of shelves. ‘My list is organised into sections and there will be no deviating from the list, understood?’
‘Sir, yes sir!’ Dylan whips his hand up to his head and clicks his heels together in the same way that’s he’s been responding to my commands since he was fourteen and that has consistently driven me crazy for the past four years. Nobody is going to salute me once he’s gone and the knowledge of this makes me suddenly want to cry.
But there’s no time scheduled for tears today. He’s going to be off before we know it and this is our chance to make sure that he has everything that he could possibly need. We’ve spent eighteen years equipping him with life skills – and now the time has come to provide him with the appropriate tools necessary for his survival.
It turns out that we have ever so slightly differing opinions on the definition of survival tools. We haven’t even made it past the first set of kitchen implements before the conflict begins.
‘You need some basic crockery,’ I say, picking up a cheap but perfectly functional set of two white dinner plates with matching side plates and bowls.
‘Basic is right,’ sniffs Scarlet. ‘They look like they’re made out of paper.’
‘I like these,’ says Dylan, gesturing to a dramatic (and tacky) dinner set. ‘The purple splatter effect really stands out against the black background.’
‘You’re going to be eating beans on toast,’ I point out. ‘I hardly think that the décor of the plate is going to enhance the culinary experience.’
He huffs a bit but I stand my ground and the basic plate set is placed into the trolley.
Round One to me.
‘Okay, now we need to find you a mug.’ I consult my list. ‘Actually, we’ll get you two mugs just in case you have a friend over and want to make them a cup of tea.’
I ignore Scarlet’s snort of derision and march across to the mug aisle.
‘How about this one?’ I ask, reaching up. ‘I think the dark blue will work well with the white plates.’
But when I turn around, Dylan and Scarlet have disappeared. Sighing, I replace the mug and then push the trolley towards the sound of my children who, for some reason, appear to be howling with laughter.
I find them in the next aisle. ‘Hey! I’m not doing this if you’re not going to take it seriously. You can’t just bugger off and leave me to do all the work. I wanted to know what mug you’d like to get but it would appear that I’m the mug for doing everything while you two just mess about.’
‘Sorry, Mum.’ Dylan looks contrite. ‘I saw this display stand and it reminded me that there’s some other stuff on the list that I need.’
I gaze at the contents in his hand and then glance back down at my list.
‘Nope. I told you before, there will be no deviating from the list and I can assure you that those items are absolutely not written down here.’
Dylan grins at me. ‘They might not be on your list but they are on my list. Look!’
He pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket and brandishes it in front of me.
He’s made a list.
His very own list.
My heart swells with so much pride that for a second I think it might actually burst, right here in the kitchen department. Finally, after all those years of hard work and effort, he is starting to take responsibility for himself.
My son, the list-maker.
He’s actually going to be okay.
My parenting work here is done and I can’t lie, it’s a bittersweet success.
‘Have you read his list, Mum?’ asks Scarlet, ruining the moment and yanking me back to reality. ‘It’s really sensible.’
I pull the piece of paper out of Dylan’s hands and scan my moist eyes across the scrawled handwriting.
It is not sensible. It would only be sensible if it were, in fact, the list of a stressed-out parent planning a particularly boisterous child’s birthday party.
‘I don’t see why you could possibly need jelly moulds,’ I tell him, a small frown furrowing onto my forehead. ‘Or fairy lights. Or inflatable toys. Or ping pong balls. Or a fancy-dress outfit.’
Dylan throws an arm around my shoulder and ushers me back towards the mug section, but not before I see him pass the jelly moulds to Scarlet who places them into the trolley.
Round Two to Dylan.
‘You want me to make friends, don’t you?’ he asks. ‘And nothing says friendship like a vodka jelly on our first night in the flat.’