I am currently sitting in a gloomily lit cafe waiting for DS to take his guitar exam. The exam centre is in what can only be described as a music warehouse. It is warm and bright, loud and populated by endlessly cheery and earnest rock types, interspersed with the occasional moody teenager. DS looks like he has died and gone to heaven, whereas it's only the tea and cake that have prevented me from curling up in the corner and weeping.
DS is already chirping away about coming back with his friend, sadly they are only 10 and will need a lift to get here. I'm doomed to a life of weekends spent staring mournfully at row upon row of guitars and drum kits aren't I?