They Hate Babies Here No.1

They Hate Babies Here: No.1 in an Occasional Series: It’s strange, but before Isobella was born, I would never have been seen dead in an All Bar One. Indeed, on the only occasion I ever found myself crossing the threshold of this dreary and homogenised chain of “aspirational” (ahem) bars was the birthday bash of a friend of a friend. And even then I, in the best News of the World investigative hack tradition, made my excuses and left as soon as I could. (A snob? Me? Absolutely.)

So when I found myself drawn to the empty branch of ABO (one letter away from ASBO: how appropriate) at London Bridge one morning recently, it was something of a surprise. But it was, as stated, empty (this being just after opening time); the smoking ban was in place and so pubs were now in bounds for babies (I had Isobella in the pram); and my companion’s nappy was full of poo. So ABO it was.

Upon entering, however, a member of staff swooped down on us in a boiling fury: “You have to be 21 to come in here!”

“That’s okay,” I smiled, “I’m 22.” (Ahem ahem).

“Not you, not you!” screeched the next CEO of ABO, “HIM! HIM! HIM!”

If she hadn’t been pointing at the pram, I’d never have known that she was talking about my daughter.

As I struggled back through the swing doors and down the steps (she wasn’t so keen to eject me that she helped me off the premises by holding the door open), you could almost smell her sense victory. “Gotcha!” her whole being seemed to say. So if you’ve ever wondered who the One was in the name, then the mystery has been solved: It’s your baby.