I bite the plastic label off my trousers and fold them carefully. Probably I should travel in my jeans as they’ll be heavy to pack. ‘Yes, I’m really, like, going.’

‘Where?’ Now Bobby has his head round the door.

‘To Peru.’ I indicate my newly purchased wares.

‘With that lot?’

That lot, I think, has to fit in one very small holdall. Our luggage allowance is minimal.

Bobby comes in and tries out the walking pole I’ve bought. The hiker’s idea of a security blanket.

My son twirls it round. ‘You’ll look like Charlie Chaplin with this.’

‘If it helps me to get up those mountains, then so be it,’ I concede.

‘You will be all right, won’t you?’ he wants to know.

‘I’ll be fine,’ I say, touched at my son’s concern. ‘I’m going to take it all at my own pace. It’s not a race. I don’t need to be there first. I just need to finish.’

‘It does sound quite exciting,’ Bobs admits. ‘Wish I was going now.’

‘I was thinking about what you said – about changing your life and stuff.’ Ellen picks at her bright blue nail varnish and avoids looking at me. ‘I might go back to college. Maybe do hairdressing. I wouldn’t mind my own salon one day. Or I could do a retail management course, work my way up in the shop.’

When I manage to shut my mouth again, I go over and hug my daughter. ‘That sounds like a wonderful idea.’

‘I gave them a bit of a ring today,’ Ellen continues, clearly embarrassed by this sudden rush of ambition or by the implied admission that her aging parent might just be right. ‘I’ve missed the September admissions date, but I could join some of the courses in January.’

I brush Ellen’s hair from her forehead as I used to when she was a little girl. ‘You know that Dad and I will support you in any way we can.’

She shrugs as if it doesn’t matter, but she smiles gratefully. ‘Thanks, Mum.’

‘I’ve been thinking too,’ Bobby says. ‘I might give the Police Force a go.’

How I don’t pass out in a dead faint, I don’t know. ‘The police?’

‘There was a recruitment thing up at the city yesterday and, well, I thought it wouldn’t do any harm . . .’ My boy tails off, also seemingly bewildered by the glimmer of ambition that has broken through his apathy.

‘No harm at all,’ I say quickly. ‘It’s a very laudable career. You’d be good at it. You’d make a fine policeman.’

‘And they give you a gun,’ Ellen adds.

‘Cool.’

Obviously, my son hasn’t considered the fringe benefits carefully.

‘We’re dead proud of you, Mum,’ Bobs says. ‘None of our mates’ mums has ever done anything like this.’