The Free Rider Problem

Well, I'm back, as requested by all the major dailies (or more accurately, by my mum).

I had been planning to say that the highlight of my week has been completing the expert level of 'Minesweeper'. But that was before I spent all of yesterday evening watching Take That from the Old Trafford tram station...utterly brilliant. And I mean that in a totally un-ironic way.

Take That related decadence: it was spontaneous, I was surrounded by happy drunk strangers, grannies shimmied up railings whilst parents helped their children clamber onto ticket machines, it was raining, Gary Barlow gave us a shout out, I remembered why I had been in love with Mark Owen (who bares a remarkable resemblance to the Husband), we were asked to move by the police yet didn't, and best of all it was FREE...so much cooler and more outrageous than Glasto.

Take That related sensibleness: we were already on the tram station, so managed to get home before anyone who was actually at the concert, it evoked a spirit of community without the spirit of drugged-up lunacy often associated with outdoor music events, and best of all it was FREE...so much more sensible than Glasto.

It was only later that I realised that my single mother had not returned from her hot date so I gave her a call. When I discovered that her mobile was switched off, I began to panic. What if she had been abducted? Mothernapped? In a car accident? At the bottom of the Manchester Ship Canal? I sent her a frantic text, saying, 'please indicate if you have been abducted and/or are dead'.

Of course she is absolutely fine, having had a delightful evening. It is only now I realise how often I in my decadent days received the exact same text message from her, and how often I ignored it...