They call it “empty nest” as though my strapping son is some sort of fledgling. Watching him pack and then going into his empty room, he is still a presence and a history: T-shirts from recent festivals; files of revision; right back to childhood books we read together. All laid out for us to see. All except one big part of his life. Hours of play on his own and with friends. We watched it all from a distance. There was that weird chase game… But there’s no record. What was it? No boxes, just the grey console. Blank. Anonymous.
