I really need to begin with a little history... for months, my husband would read the Living With Teenagers column in The Guardian on a Saturday and say, "Listen to this..." Invariably, I'd reply, "I don't want to hear it. No. Stop reading! If I wanted to read it I'd read it myself." And he'd say, "I know, but just listen to this..." and either "these kids are so awful" or "these parents are such idiots." Occasionally I'd listen and I'd always wish I hadn't. I didn't know why anyone would want to read about such appalling behaviour.
And then it emerged that the anonymous writer of the columns was author Julie Myerson. (The news came out as a result of Myerson writing a non-fiction book, The Lost Child, partly about her eldest son's addiction to cannabis.) A while ago, I read Myerson's memoir, Home, and absolutely loved it. It was not only fascinating, it also gave me lifestyle envy: her beautiful house, her wonderful husband, her gorgeous kids. How could those little sweethearts possibly be the same horrors my husband insisted on telling me about? How? And so I got the book - the Living With Teenagers columns collected - from the library.
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