“Kim. Kim. It’s 3 o’clock.”
“Are you awake?”
Then my alarm goes off. I switch it off and attempt to focus my eyes on the figures displayed under the small but incredibly bright light, which threatens to fry my eyeballs in their sockets.
I have half an hour to get up, get dressed, drink coffee and get Rogan and his bags into the car. It’s then another half an hour drive to Dumfries where the coaches are leaving.
“But I’m Fatigued, don’t you know?” I mumble into the pillow, but Maggie’s already back downstairs, making sandwiches for his journey.
This is the school skiing trip to the Italian Alps Rogan began his Cakes Business to help pay for. Although he didn’t manage to earn enough to cover it entirely, he did eventually put £350 towards it, which was nearly half.
He’s heading for a resort called Aprica where, oddly enough, I went on my first school skiing trip back when I was just 6 months younger than Rogan is now, about 2 months after my 13th birthday.
I remember it as a time of chatting up Italian waitresses; roommates getting drunk; and trying to steal a Christmas kiss from the eminently fanciable PE mistress.
Can I imagine Rogan getting up to these kinds of things?
Perhaps it’s because I’m his Dad and so he seems so much younger than I remember being at that age. But then I also get the feeling he’s not quite as, quite as... [insert appropriate word]... as I was.
Which is probably a good thing.
Either that, or he’s particularly good at covering his tracks. Which wouldn’t be a bad thing either.
5am. I’m climbing back into bed. Maggie’s fast asleep, but thankfully very warm.
Getting up a 2nd time this morning certainly felt a bit odd.
It’s a strange day of mixed emotions.
My stepdaughter, Holly, is down to visit for a few days, and it’s always wonderful to see her.
And it’s Meg’s 11th birthday today. I’m sure she was only 8 the last time I looked.
And there seems to be a Rogan sized hole in the family.