She was dressing like one of them depressed lassies you see in the centre of town. You know, the ones who loiter behind the bookshop in Buchanan Street. I don’t know what they do, they talk about music and watch the young lads play on the skateboards. And have their tights all ripped to shreds. Is that fashion? To me they all look the same, all dressed in black. And that make-up they all wear! What they need is a good wash, so they do. Anyway, I didn’t want our Rosie to follow suit. It’s not any parent’s dream, is it? But I’d have rather her run around with that crowd than have her knocking about with a group of NEDs. It’s terrifying being a parent nowadays. You’re scared stiff to let them out of your sight, then there’s the whole teenage rebellion thing, not to mention the periods and growing up. As a mother you want to be pals with your daughter, good pals, you know, talking about girlie stuff and all that, but Rosie was no into all that, she hated all that pink girlie stuff, she even hated me washing her underwear.
