More than once, I've checked the time in New York and done the maths. My shopping list is longer than usual, partly down to granddad's latest condition and partly because I've had a couple of evenings out, and my son is bound to be impressed that dad can still cut it at the London nightspots.
I set myself up beside the landline - can't really understand why people feel the need to skype their offspring just for a fuzzy look at the latest stubble or the appalling state of a bedroom. I did once hesitate when someone told me it was free, but I wouldn't know how to work the thing anyway.
After a final visit to the loo (for insurance purposes), I ring my son's cell phone at the appointed time to be greeted by the young woman employed to look after his voice-mail. I don't suppose she wants to meet up so I mumble something mundane and await the usual overnight email giving me a new time to call. On the plus side I reflect on my son's healthily active social life, look forward to an early night and the prospect of, once again, waking up alive.
a full moon
briefly on hold
the dustbin men
bang on time