The story of the Camerons' mix-up in leaving their daughter behind in a pub recalls an episode from my own childhood which has become part of the lore of our family. It's the day my Mom forgot to pick me up from the barber's. How old I was at the time I don't remember exactly, maybe nine or ten; but the rest is still quite vivid to me.
I needed a haircut and my Mom dropped me off to get one - I think the place was in Eighth or Ninth Avenue (in Bulawayo) between Abercorn Street and Fife, though I couldn't swear to that - and she said she'd be back in half an hour to pick me up. I had my haircut and then went and stood outside the door of the barber's and waited. And waited and waited. I was beginning to feel a bit concerned when at last, maybe an hour late (I'm not altogether sure how long it was), she pitched up. Covered in guilt. Full of apology. She'd driven home and was sitting having tea with a friend before it suddenly hit her.
I tell this story only because of its similarity with the one in the news today. I wasn't scarred by the experience but took it quite phlegmatically. I don't want to get mawkish or anything, but my Mom was, and has always been to me, the best I could imagine having. My sense of who I am is informed by the confidence I have always had that her love for me was unqualified - a rock. It was something I just knew in my bones. So I've let her off for forgetting me that day after my haircut.