Now, there’s a question. I like to think I know myself quite well but like many, I’m prone to a bit of introspection. A bit of wondering about what others think of me.
The subject came up in a conversation with a friend this week. We were talking about Mum and her reaction when I pop in to see her. Does she see her son of (nearly) 52 years or does she see a smiling stranger? It’s probably impossible to say. Sometimes the carer who’s let me in will announce my arrival but on other occasions, I’ll make an unheralded approach. My eyes meet Mum’s and she peers at me, apparently straining for recognition. Who is this person? What does he mean to me?
It shouldn’t matter whether Mum knows who I am but somehow it does. At the age of 51, I’m still her son and I want her to know that. Why? I’m not sure. We laugh, we sing, we play catch. I play the fool. We have a good time. There’s love and warmth in the time we spend together. She might not know my name but who cares?
Well, I do. It doesn’t make any difference to the time we spend together but still, I wish it was different.
Oh and just to add to my identity-confusion, I seem, in the world of one social media platform, to be the son of one of the greatest, most celebrated modern musicians of all. When David Bowie died earlier this year, my Twitter feed burst into life with heartfelt condolences. Last week, when the BAFTA-award winning director of the Moon and the son of said rock star celebrated his 45th birthday, I was tweeted out again. For the record, I am Duncan Jones, but I’m not that Duncan Jones. Try explaining that one to Mum.