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Moving up three places on The List to number one is the fact Tilly has now moved to the beach. The Beach. Ok — so she’s on a beach in Bali, not Thailand, and I realise the Leonardo DiCaprio film was fictional and gave backpacking a bad name, but surely even good beach life can turn ugly — it’s far too close to the sea.
Still holding position at number two is accommodation on the beach. £4.50 a night. Does that price include a lavatory? A door? A door with a lock? A fan? A rat? This is a child who gets into bed with me to watch Friends and wraps herself up in a White Company cashmere throw.
Number three: Dioralyte. Did I give her enough Dioralyte? Why didn’t I give her more Dioralyte? Did she take the wretched Dioralyte? Does Dioralyte really work?
New entry at number four: ‘May go to Gilli Islands — not sure if my mob will work x.’ I can’t revisit that text, the thought of being totally incommunicado is giving me palpitations.
Number five: A smorgasbord of shard-like worries that my only hope of keeping under control is by applying the logic of statistical probability. Terrorist attacks, spiked drinks, dengue fever, swine flu, weird people, weirder people, truly evil weird people.
Every morning I wake up, log onto Facebook and see if I have a message. A message a day keeps the fear at bay.
‘Don’t freak out Mamma!!!! Guess what? Today I went surfing and it was unreal. And guess what? I got up first time and the waves were medium-big.’
I write a reply. ‘Cool. Of course I’m not freaking out, I just want you to have the most amazing time ever.’
On tonight’s List we have a new entry that has zoomed straight in at number one: Waves. Tidal waves. Tsunamis. Concussion. Sharks. Jellyfish.
I just want to go back to counting sheep. Come home.
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