Less than a week after explaining in words of one syllable that we were broke, I saw my husband’s hand held high above his head at a charity auction. I assumed it was the gesture of a drowning man; but the auctioneer took it as a bid and the gavel fell. We, whose outgoings exceed our income, paid handsomely for a day’s labour from six young people from Youth Action Wiltshire — a charity that supports disadvantaged young people. A very good cause, I didn’t doubt, but was the man mad? The six kids arrived last Sunday, three girls and three boys, between 13 and 17, all responsible for a parent or a sibling with some kind of serious disability or addiction. Their task was to plant trees in the paddock, and not one of them looked fit for the purpose. They were almost as slight as the saplings and the soil is solid clay. But that’s the last time I judge by appearances — they worked their socks off and could not have been more cheerful. One boy had had only two hours’ sleep the night before, because he had been up with his mother. He left shortly ahead of the others to go to work as washer-up in a pub. The next day, he’d again rise early to look after his mother, before leaving for school. He was 14. The most recent survey suggested there might be 700,000 young carers in the UK, some as young as five. Youth Action helps them cope with the problems that follow including terrible isolation. One in three regularly misses school, and over 70 per cent are bullied because of their caring role. I baked a cake with jam and cream by way of thanks, and they went away exhausted but clearly thrilled by what they had achieved. It was very humbling and I can’t think of a better reason for going to debtors’ prison.
Shortly afterwards I was in heaven; surrounded by all four of my children, who never had to care for more than a hamster at a similar age and would have balked at planting a daisy. It was my eldest son Sam Leith’s book launch. Sam has always had a way with words. When he was five I found him and his little brother lying on the carpet, propped on their elbows examining what remained of a squirrel that the cat had brought in. All that was left was the rear end and a bushy tail. Sam was gravely explaining that the cat’s mid-morning snack had almost certainly died of a brain haemorrhage. It was a great relief to us that he chose a career in writing rather than medicine.
Sam’s first novel, The Coincidence Engine (‘a chaotic chase across an imaginary America, haunted by madness, murder, mistaken identity and a very large number of unhealthy but delicious snacks’), was published on Monday, coincidentally the very day that his second baby was due. Sam’s father was running a book on the likelihood of Alice going into labour at the launch party, but the youngest Leith is clearly very comfortable and in no rush to greet the world. I can’t say I blame him or her but the excitement is killing me.
When I was a child my mother gave me a Tibetan Lion Hound for my birthday, commonly known as a Shitsu (a breed of dog; not, as popularly supposed, a zoo without penguins). It was a small but feisty little thing with long hair and a serious design fault at the rear which made its name apt. The slightest upset stomach involved a wrestling match in a bucket of soapy water. So why, when I bought a handsome silver tabby Maine Coon, did I not remember the Shitsu? As I marvelled at its long flowing coat, why did I not think of the inevitable scatological disaster? Coincidentally, it happened on the night of Sam’s book launch. We were full of good wine and all was well with the world. Alas, the same could not be said for the Maine Coon, whose attempts, in the fastidious way of cats, to dislodge the mess stuck to his rear had left not one room unvisited. Defeated, he had fallen into a deep sleep on my duvet. At one in the morning there was nothing for it but the bucket of soapy water (and a clean duvet). Cats, it turns out, are even less fond of being dunked in water than Shitsus.
Years ago, when I presented a prime-time television programme, my father stopped at a chemist in south London. On seeing the name John Junor on the prescription, the chemist beamed in recognition. But instead of saying, as strangers usually did, that he read and loved my father’s weekly column, the chemist asked whether he was related in any way to Penny. My father was thrilled. Increasingly, I’m asked if I’m related to Sam — and what a buzz!
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