Maybe it was something they ate. Maybe they got out of bed on the wrong side. Most likely it’s just a sign of the teenage times. All I know is that it came as a shock. Yesterday, for the first time in memory, the Prescott children suddenly declared themselves far too busy to partake in decorating the Christmas tree.
“What the heck,” grunted my fifteen-year-old son, Greg. “I mean, seriously, we won’t even be here for Christmas, we’ll be in Dubai. What’s the point?” His left nostril curled upwards, dragging his upper lip along with it as he shrugged his right shoulder, his body language alone expressing the utter futility of hauling four boxes of holiday paraphernalia out of the bomb shelter (yes, we Swiss are equipped for such charming eventualities) and up the stairs to the living room. My fledgling Christmas cheer vanished in a horrified little gasp. Worse, I think I aged ten years in three seconds. Continue reading