Girl on a motorcycle
She called me the other night with the news that no parent wants to hear. It went like this:
"Dad I have something I want to tell you."
"yes honey"
"I want to get a motorbike"
...long pause on my end while I focus hard on the current unstable status of my sphincter...
"It's not you I worry about" (I know she's not stupid), I add....
"It's texters, or knob twiddlers driving cars half asleep that scare me... you will be mincemeat out there on a bike"
I flounder and thrash with panicked anecdote and statistic. There is a longer pause while she allows it to sink in, she has already made up her mind, this call was just a formality, she has always been that way, not defiant, she will listen to advice and even take some of it, but she will let it be known who has executive power over her life, bless her, it's how I always wanted her to be, just please... not on a motorcycle.
Romanticising, glass half-full jerk that I am, I visualise her sitting astride a stunning little retro cafe racer outside Bar Italia, macchiato in one hand, clad in full skin-tight leathers, with a backing track of Miles Davis, looking like the coolest (she is already 98% there anyway) all the while blocking out the reality of a filthy wet day on the North Circular surrounded by white van man and Chelsea tractor girl.
So, I am going to have to suck it up and say a another little prayer everyday that she will be safe from harm. I can hardly tell her what to do, especially at her age and with my track record. This is the price you pay for my beautiful reward (to quote two Springsteen titles in one sentence).
Many, many happy returns honey I will never stop worrying or caring about you that's my job, but go and live the life you want to live.
Photo: Marianne Faithfull in the 1968 movie: Girl on a Motorcycle.
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