I'LL say one thing for Senior Son - he's an incurable optimist. This isn't always a good thing.

It means he always thinks he can pass exams without doing any work, that essays will write themselves and that his horse will always win. Plenty of experience to the contrary still hasn't persuaded him otherwise.

But he can also look on the bright side - which is a bit more useful. Like the time I dashed to his hospital bedside after he'd been cut free from an upside-down car. He lay trembling on a trolley in casualty, blood pouring from the side of his head, bits of windscreen sticking out of his scalp, his jeans and trainers cut to ribbons. He grabbed my hand with such force that he almost broke every bone. His teeth chattered so much that I could hardly hear what he was saying, but I knew it must be important.

I bent forward - just like mums in soap operas - thinking I'd hear him whisper some great truth, a philosophical thought about love maybe, or the meaning of life. His voice croaked round his chattering teeth.

"I'll need some new trainers now. I've seen this really ace pair..." Only Senior Son could see a brush with death as a shopping opportunity.

He is also a firm believer in the idea that Something Will Turn Up. And for him, it usually does.

For the last week or so he's been wrestling with a problem. One of his oldest, closest friends was about to celebrate her 21st. It was unthinkable that he should miss it. The trouble was, however, that he is on his work placement year. That Saturday night has long been booked for him to be in charge of the bar at a hotel in the middle of Manchester. The party was in Leeds. He probably wouldn't finish work till well gone midnight. The party was looking definitely iffy.

He'd tried to get someone else to work for him. No joy. He was getting desperate. For all his faults, he is not a lad to pretend to be sick, or just not turn up. If he offered to work until 10pm he thought, maybe someone would just do the last few hours. Maybe he could just close the bar early.

A few days later he rang, sounding triumphant.

"Good news! "he said, "I can go to Stacy's party!"

"Great," I said, a little cloud of bitter experience already forming in my brain, "And what's the bad news?"

"I've broken my arm in three places!"

Arrgghh.

He did it, would you believe, arm-wrestling or some such foolery. He is in pain, he can't drive, he will be off work for some time and has to get someone to cut up his food for him. But does he mind?

Not a jot.

All he cares about is that he and his plaster cast can party the night away. This lad is so dazzled by silver linings that he can't even see the clouds.

Sometimes, I think, you can have just a bit too much sunny optimism.