The wrong track

“I think you’ll be back before long. You’ll miss your home comforts, home cooking and getting your washing done,” I told him.

But no, Patrick, who turned 19 last month, insisted he was an adult now, and perfectly capable of looking after himself.

So why wasn’t I surprised when "Mr Independent" called and blurted out five words he never thought he’d say now he was a grown up: “Mum, what should I do?”

It was Friday night and I was supposed to be picking him up from the train station at 10pm as we were all heading to see his grandparents in Kent the next morning, leaving at 7am to set off on the five-and-a-half hour drive.

This was to be Patrick’s first trip home since moving to Manchester: “The train’s gone. I didn’t get on it,” he said. It took him a few moments to explain why. “I didn’t have my ticket.”

After further questioning, I ascertained that his ticket was in his wallet and his wallet had "disappeared".

“What do I do now?” he asked again.

His wallet, it turned out, had all his bank cards, bus pass, student card, room key and everything else of any importance in it. He remembered having it when he went to the information desk to ask what platform his train left from.

He thought he had it in his hand when he sat on a bench with his bag to wait for the train, he said. But it might have been in his pocket, he added.

So I told him to go back to the desk and see if it had been handed in, before double checking all his pockets and bag. Then, once he was sure it had gone, he’d have to report it to police at the station and contact the bank to cancel his cards immediately.

I rang the bank, explained what had happened and they said they’d contact Patrick on his mobile number. With no money to get a bus back to his student halls, we told him to stay at the station while his dad set off in the car to collect him.

Patrick rang again after about 15 minutes: “There’s a train leaving for York soon and they might let me get on it in the circumstances,” he said. “But it’s not definite,” he added.

His dad was already on his way to Manchester, a four-hour journey, there and back: “Well, you’d better let us know, Patrick. Your dad has to drive to Kent early tomorrow morning. He will not be pleased if he finds out when he’s half way to Manchester that you’re in York.”

Eventually, Patrick got on the train to York. His dad did a U-turn and they arrived home before midnight.

I gave our "Mr Independent" a hug: “At least you’re OK, Patrick, and you’ve got home safely, that’s the important thing. But you must can learn from this,” I said.

His dad and I went on to lecture him on the dangers of leaving his wallet sticking out of his pocket or sitting by his side: “You’re easy prey for pickpockets. They can spot new students at the railway station a mile off, you’re like innocents abroad,” we said.

He might be a grown-up now, but lack of experience makes him naive: “You mustn’t assume you can trust everyone you come across. Believe it or not, some people are out to exploit you.”

We consoled ourselves with the fact he had probably learnt a valuable lesson. And, of course, it could have been worse. He hadn’t been hurt and he was home, safe. His bank card had been cancelled and all his other cards could be replaced.

We were all up early next morning when Patrick wandered into the kitchen: “Mum, you’re not going to believe this,” he said, holding up his wallet. “It was in the side pocket of my bag all along.”

Now, why didn’t that surprise me?

I TOOK 12-year-old Albert and his friend, Hallam, to the village bonfire and firework display in a local farmers’ field at the weekend. They were about to run off, out of my sight, to meet friends. As the bonfire blazed in the distance and, worried about the dangers of stray fireworks and sizzling sparklers, I cautioned them: “Now you know the rules, don’t you boys?” Yes, said Hallam confidently: “We’re not to get into the fire.” I bet he’ll be a health and safety officer when he grows up.