London - The other day, I was buying a Modigliani reproduction in the gallery shop at the Courtauld Institute (one of the loveliest collections in London), when in walked a young man, who asked politely if he could see the manager.
He was in his 20s, like our four sons - but unlike the three currently in residence at Utley Towers, he was neatly turned out in a suit and tie, and had clearly washed, shaved and combed his hair that morning.
He explained that he had started a small independent publishing company, which had brought out a guide to the capital. He wondered if there was any possibility that the Courtauld shop might be interested in taking a few copies.
There wasn’t much hope of that, I thought, since as far as I was aware the shop didn’t sell that sort of thing. But he had about him such an air of modesty and good manners that, instead of shooing him away, the woman behind the counter immediately set about finding someone who could help him.
At this point, I paid for my picture and went on my way. So I don’t know whether or not this enterprising young man struck lucky. But what I can report is that I left the gallery wishing, wishing, wishing that my own boys could be a little more like him.
Of course, I know that’s an awful thing for a father to say - and to a potential readership of millions, what’s more. Indeed, it’s terribly unfair that I keep holding up our sons in these columns as exemplars of the faults and foibles of their generation (though, as I never tire of pointing out to them, it’s my writing that puts food in their mouths, clothes on their backs and a roof over their heads).
So let me say at once that I’m devoted to all four of them, that they’re all very bright and funny, literate and numerate, and that they scrub up very nicely on the rare occasions when they try.
There are times when they can even pass themselves off convincingly as courteous and respectable members of the human race - although, come to think of it, the last time I saw all four looking presentable simultaneously was at my mother’s funeral 21 months ago.
Oh, and to be absolutely fair, I should acquit our second son of the charges that follow. He, at least, has a work ethic, and I’m proud of his determination to make a success of his tough new job as a teacher. Meanwhile, son number four has the excuse of having a year still to go at his university.
But as for sons numbers one and three, oh, how I bellowed “amen” when the chief inspector of schools laid into the young of today for their sloppy dress, lackadaisical timekeeping and slovenly habits of speech, saying many lack the most basic attitudes and motivation needed to get on in this world.
Said Sir Michael Wilshaw: “If they dress inappropriately, speak inappropriately and have poor social skills, they are not going to get a job.”
When I embarked on this parenthood business, 29 years ago, I could have sworn that I’d never become the sort of caricature tyrant of a father who barks at his offspring: “Smarten yourselves up, boys! Get your hair cut! Stop moping around at home, get off your lazy backsides and start making something of your lives!”
I was far too liberal-minded, easy-going and indulgent for that.
But as the months and years tick by, with no sign of a career breakthrough for the geniuses I’ve bred, I find myself more and more tempted to turn into a Battery Sergeant Major figure, like the one played by Windsor Davies in the sitcom It Ain’t Half Hot Mum.
I mean, look at that aspiring publisher in the gallery shop. He’d not only had the get-up-and-go to set himself up in business. Having published his first book, he was now walking round central London, trying his luck with every outlet that might possibly sell it - and this at 11am, when other members of his generation whom I could name were still fast asleep (and goodness knows how many shops he had already visited before trying the gallery).
What’s more, he’d had the wit to dress smartly and speak courteously, giving himself the best chance of success.
Now compare this with our eldest’s idea of establishing a career. In the early months after he left Edinburgh University, with a highly respectable degree in Spanish, this would involve poring through the situations vacant columns and occasionally ringing a number.
But when I say “ringing a number”, I don’t mean in the conventional sense of picking up a telephone and actually dialling it. I mean he would make a circle round the number with a Biro and then push the paper aside while he had a long think about it, his job-hunting done for the day. And that would be that.
More recently, he’s been spending hours on the internet, presumably searching for that elusive advertisement: “Wanted. Young graduate to write and host prime-time TV show. Starting salary, £2-million. No experience required.”
All right, this is a grotesque and unfair parody. To give him his due, he’s had intermittent spells working punishing hours in pubs, as well as a three-month stint in Rio de Janeiro, working for a charity and writing highly competent stuff for a local English-language newspaper. But not a whiff yet of anything you might describe as a career. Though he’s not yet 30, I’m already beginning to worry about what he’ll do for a pension.
Or take son number three, fluent in mockney and West Indian street-talk, bruv, with his catchphrase: “The job-hunt starts in earnest tomorrow.”
Rumour has it that he’s writing a brilliant TV comedy in his attic. I can’t confirm this, because he’s an entirely nocturnal animal and our waking hours seldom coincide. Indeed, he hardly stirs from his lair until occupants of the working world are asleep - including anyone who might conceivably offer him a job.
I know, I know. These have been hard times for their generation, graduating just as the recession struck, while for a great many twentysomethings, the exorbitant property prices in London and the South-East make living with Mom and Dad the only option.
I also know that I bear a large share of the blame for our sons’ lack of enterprise. This is partly because they seem to have inherited my indolent genes (yes, I’ve always worked, but I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to).
Indeed, only our second appears to have been blessed with the attitude of his mother, who took a job as a double-decker bus driver for a couple of years when money was tight and secretarial work was in short supply.
But I’m also at fault because, like so many of my generation, I’ve been over-indulgent of my young. I’m not suggesting that they are among the one in six 18 to 34 year-olds who, according to a survey, actively prefer living with their parents. I know they’d love to see the back of us if a well-paid job fell into their laps.
But what is true is that, what with the freedom of the fridge, Mom’s home cooking and no utility bills or rent to pay, we’ve made their lives just a bit too comfortable.
Too comfortable, that is, to give them the spur to get up in the morning, shave, put on a suit, drop the mockney and go round knocking on doors until somebody recognises their abundant talents and sets them on the path to a career.
These days, there must be plenty of jobs going for people of their ability who are willing to lower their sights a little and make that small effort to smarten up.
All right, my sons have never drawn benefits. But let’s face it, we middle-class parents who over-indulge our young may have just the same demoralising, demotivating effects on our young as the welfare state often has on its claimants.
So here’s my new resolution: though it goes bitterly against the grain of my soft paternal heart, I’ll try to make life a whole lot more awkward and unpleasant at home. The snide things I’ve said about my beloved sons in this column may be a good start. - Daily Mail