Trigger Blessing
Don't avoid your triggers. Thank them.
The trigger warning. My daughter’s generation expects them. My generation? Hell, we’re iron-plated. We’re the latchkey kids. The basic parenting style for our lot was neglect. First year, leave them to cry in a pram at the end of the garden. Second and third years, smack them a lot. After that, leave them to do their own thing. Throw them out of the house after breakfast, saying come back at teatime.
Four years old, cycle half a mile up the main road on your tricycle? Positively encouraged. Get sent to the shop to get bread when you’re five? You bet. Walk your kid sister to school when you’re six or seven, crossing a whole bunch of roads in the process? Sure. Never mind the creepy flasher in the cut-through. Teenage years? Get into drinking vodka and having sex at fourteen just to see if they care what you’re up to. (They don’t).
I ran away from home once with just my pocket money, a spare jumper, my diary and a pen. I took a bus as far as fifty pence would …
