Twenty-fourth of June today, celebration of the birth of St John the Baptist. When John’s mother Elizabeth – a woman of advanced years and the cousin of Mary Mother of God – announced her pregnancy to her husband Zachariah, the poor fellow was struck literally dumb. He remained thus for nine whole months.
Zachariah, I know how you feel, mate.
Tuesday 24 June 2008
Friday 20 June 2008
ESSENTIAL Listening
One of the best things about being a stay-at-home dad (at least part of the time – Karen and I are both freelance and split the childcare) is catching the mighty Woman's Hour on BBC Radio 4. I've just caught up with a programme from Friday 13th June in which Tony Parsons and a variety of fathers and "experts" talked frankly about dadding. Fascinating, moving, insightful (three words you don't always associate with Tony Parsons), if you can still get it on Listen Again, it's the best programme I've ever heard on the topic. It may also still be available on podcast. The Woman's Hour website is at www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/womanshour.
Norfolk: No County for New Men
First family holiday – a short break to Norfolk.
Exotic, I know. But it was fun to watch the average age of the place plummet to 79 just by our arrival.
The seafront at Cromer has a pleasing Edwardian aspect. But the social mores of the place seem to be rooted firmly in the period of Edward's long-running old ma. I was treated to confused and, on one occasion, filthy looks and given a wide berth as I pushed the pram along the seafront. Being a God's Waiting Room sort of a place, Cromer was perhaps not ready for the sight of a man pushing his own daughter along in a pram without his wife in attendance. And I use the word "wife" as opposed to "partner" advisedly – for Cromer, it seems, is not yet ready for unmarried couples breeding. The previous day, when my wife Karen had been making the same journey – i.e. a pleasant stroll along the prom prom prom tiddley-om-pom-pom – she was approached, and by "approached" I mean "assailed", by a nonagenarian in a brace of hearing aids and a big bad attitude. "You're not one of these bloody single mothers are you?" he railed, "getting all the council houses for free and sponging off the state? I've seen 'em. Here in Cromer I've seen 'em. Here in Cromer!"
His shock at the phenomena of single mothers in Cromer, noted Karen, was akin to someone having found a Martian invasion scene in an Emily Bronte novel.
Say what you like about London, but complete strangers who want to chat about babies stop me at least once a day when I'm out and about with Isobella. Almost always they wistfully turn to memories of their own children. And it's always lovely to listen. On one occasion, a be-suited, middle aged City gent sprang out in front of me, pointed at Isobella in her pushchair and announced gleefully: "I've got two of those." Lifting his finger to point at me, he added, "But the oldest one's as big as you now…" And off he went into a monologue about how he wished his generation had been allowed to be more hands-on as dads. Nice fella.
There's always an exception, of course. And this came in the shape of the miserable old crone on the H3 bus through Hampstead Garden Suburb (I ask you, where else?). Isobella was tired and hungry and was, quite naturally, grizzling about the whole state of affairs. Mrs Hampstead Garden Suburb, after a concerted campaign of vicious looks, finally spat:
"Have you nothing to put in that baby's mouth?"
My reply of, "Have you nothing to put in your own mouth?" although not a vintage slice of invective, had the planned effect of bringing a cessation to the (mercifully) brief episode.
Exotic, I know. But it was fun to watch the average age of the place plummet to 79 just by our arrival.
The seafront at Cromer has a pleasing Edwardian aspect. But the social mores of the place seem to be rooted firmly in the period of Edward's long-running old ma. I was treated to confused and, on one occasion, filthy looks and given a wide berth as I pushed the pram along the seafront. Being a God's Waiting Room sort of a place, Cromer was perhaps not ready for the sight of a man pushing his own daughter along in a pram without his wife in attendance. And I use the word "wife" as opposed to "partner" advisedly – for Cromer, it seems, is not yet ready for unmarried couples breeding. The previous day, when my wife Karen had been making the same journey – i.e. a pleasant stroll along the prom prom prom tiddley-om-pom-pom – she was approached, and by "approached" I mean "assailed", by a nonagenarian in a brace of hearing aids and a big bad attitude. "You're not one of these bloody single mothers are you?" he railed, "getting all the council houses for free and sponging off the state? I've seen 'em. Here in Cromer I've seen 'em. Here in Cromer!"
His shock at the phenomena of single mothers in Cromer, noted Karen, was akin to someone having found a Martian invasion scene in an Emily Bronte novel.
Say what you like about London, but complete strangers who want to chat about babies stop me at least once a day when I'm out and about with Isobella. Almost always they wistfully turn to memories of their own children. And it's always lovely to listen. On one occasion, a be-suited, middle aged City gent sprang out in front of me, pointed at Isobella in her pushchair and announced gleefully: "I've got two of those." Lifting his finger to point at me, he added, "But the oldest one's as big as you now…" And off he went into a monologue about how he wished his generation had been allowed to be more hands-on as dads. Nice fella.
There's always an exception, of course. And this came in the shape of the miserable old crone on the H3 bus through Hampstead Garden Suburb (I ask you, where else?). Isobella was tired and hungry and was, quite naturally, grizzling about the whole state of affairs. Mrs Hampstead Garden Suburb, after a concerted campaign of vicious looks, finally spat:
"Have you nothing to put in that baby's mouth?"
My reply of, "Have you nothing to put in your own mouth?" although not a vintage slice of invective, had the planned effect of bringing a cessation to the (mercifully) brief episode.
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