Rock stars

Jack's in bed in our room next door, Nala's in her dog basket next to us and U2 are rocking it on our big-arse tv, in their 'Rattle and Hum' doccie dvd. Joel and I are both living out our rock star fantasies through Bono's supremely arrogant prancing on stage. Joel (who turned 43 today!) asks me 'Is it too late to become a rock star?' I vehemently answer: 'No way! It's never too late!'

For the past hour, our slippered feet have been tapping to the epic sounds of 'With or without you'; 'Where the streets have no name'; and 'Still haven't found what I'm looking for'; and I can almost feel the sweat drip down my face from the bright lights.

'Sunday bloody Sunday' comes hauntingly on and I'm transported back to my varsity days, squashed with 4 friends into a maroon banged-up Toyota Tazz on our way to the latest student hang-out 'The Dogbox', with U2 raging on the car speakers and a fire in my heart. I felt like a dangerous rebel living on the edge and the night shone with possibility...but if I remember right, I had one beer, got a bit tipsy and went home early because the place was smoky and jostling with sweaty drunk people. Needless to say, I never really went through a wild rebellious phase.

But on nights like tonight, for as long as the song lasts, I can pretend I'm a tequila-swilling, cigarillo-smoking blues singer.

And to at least one person in this house, I am a rock star. For Jack, who beams at Joel and I whenever we walk into the room, arches his back and pumps his little legs in excitement when we talk to him and whose eyes follow us as we move around, we rock his world.