Thursday 28 August 2008
Brad Pitt Ha Ha Ha
Glad to see, on the front cover of this morning's Independent, new dad Brad Pitt looking like crap trapped in the neck of a bottle. Well when I say "crap trapped in the neck of a bottle" it's all relative: there's still not an ounce of him hanging the wrong way, that I'll grant you. But there was a definite crumpling around the eyes, a clear saggy knackered-ness that comes with being kept awake all night by the mewling of newborns. Next to him in the same photo was George Clooney, an older man by far, whiter of hair, but looking fresher and, yes, younger than his New Dad chum. George's secret to staying youthful? Is it Nadine Baggot and her famous pentapeptides? Nope. It's much simpler. George has no kids. So did I feel a twinge of sympathy for old Brad? A pang of empathy? Nah. Punched the air, frankly and thought "Good. Serves him right. Just goes to show you can't have everything." Small minded of me? Yes. I put it down to tiredness.
Wednesday 27 August 2008
Friday 22 August 2008
"We Won't Let Parenthood Change Us…"
Saw a cartoon last Christmas – either in The Spectator or the New Statesman (a sign of the times that even the magazines of the political right and left blur – or should that be Blair? – into one another). It featured, topically, being Christmas, Mary and Joseph and the infant Christ in the manger. The two shiny, happy parents, whilst gazing lovingly at the new arrival, made a resolution” “We won’t,” they agreed between them, “let it change us.”
Raised a wry little smile, I can tell you, being, as I was, six months into parenting.
Eight months on the wry smile is gone. It its place there are peels, gales of laughter. Gales of long, loud, brittle laughter. The kind usually reserved for megalomaniacs in bad sci-fi and spy movies. The kind of take-over-the-world laughter the baddies are prone to, only shot through with notes of desperation. And tiredness. Lots and lots of tiredness.
“We won’t let it change us,” is the battle cry of the new parent. Yet here are just three of the ways I’ve morphed into someone utterly unrecognisable to my former self in just the last 24 hours.
i. Went on to water in the pub on a Saturday night (a Saturday night for Chrissakes!) after the second beer.
ii. Rearranged a night out with old pals over from Ireland because it interfered with Isobella’s routine.
iii. Stood in absolute, total and deeply uncomfortable silence at a party because I had nothing whatsoever to say about any subject other than my daughter.
Number iii may be the most disturbing. I no longer have time to watch football/check the sports pages (or any other newspaper pages, come to that) so don’t know what is going on in that area. So when someone throws me a conversational bone such as “What about that Ronaldo, eh?” I have no response. What about him? Did he die? Commit some horrific crime? Come out of the closet?
Ditto “Have you seen The Dark Knight yet?” It is only from the context (people at a party were talking about movies) and the vital clue of the word “seen” that I even realised that they were talking about films.
So I haven’t let fatherhood change me… aside from the fact that I have stopped paying attention to football, going to see movies or reading newspapers. But apart from that…
Well, apart from that there’s the beer thing I mentioned earlier. I’ve pretty much stopped that altogether. How radical a change can this really be, you may ask? Well, have you been following all those doom and gloom stories in the press about how pub takings are down and the British boozer is on the verge of extinction? I can’t help but think I’ve had a hand in this with my drastic change of habits.
So, to sum up: that’s no drink, no football, no newspapers or telly or new movies (see also books, theatre, music); and pissing off my old pals by my constant rearranging/cancelling nights out/meetings/parties. And that’s only the stuff that’s happened in that last 24 hours.
Does it get me down? Of course it does. Abso-bloody-lutely. But only until Isobella laughs or runs or smiles or says “Daddo!” or makes a soft jobby in her nappy or climbs the stairs or claps her hands or… or anything, really. In fact just to see her wipes all the difficulties away. Fourteen months ago I wouldn’t have dreamt of posting such slushy, sentimental pap on a website for all the world to see. Now, however, I don’t care. Soppy? Sure. Sentimental? You bet your ass. But with one smile from my daughter, I no longer care what anybody thinks. And that’s the biggest change of all.
Raised a wry little smile, I can tell you, being, as I was, six months into parenting.
Eight months on the wry smile is gone. It its place there are peels, gales of laughter. Gales of long, loud, brittle laughter. The kind usually reserved for megalomaniacs in bad sci-fi and spy movies. The kind of take-over-the-world laughter the baddies are prone to, only shot through with notes of desperation. And tiredness. Lots and lots of tiredness.
“We won’t let it change us,” is the battle cry of the new parent. Yet here are just three of the ways I’ve morphed into someone utterly unrecognisable to my former self in just the last 24 hours.
i. Went on to water in the pub on a Saturday night (a Saturday night for Chrissakes!) after the second beer.
ii. Rearranged a night out with old pals over from Ireland because it interfered with Isobella’s routine.
iii. Stood in absolute, total and deeply uncomfortable silence at a party because I had nothing whatsoever to say about any subject other than my daughter.
Number iii may be the most disturbing. I no longer have time to watch football/check the sports pages (or any other newspaper pages, come to that) so don’t know what is going on in that area. So when someone throws me a conversational bone such as “What about that Ronaldo, eh?” I have no response. What about him? Did he die? Commit some horrific crime? Come out of the closet?
Ditto “Have you seen The Dark Knight yet?” It is only from the context (people at a party were talking about movies) and the vital clue of the word “seen” that I even realised that they were talking about films.
So I haven’t let fatherhood change me… aside from the fact that I have stopped paying attention to football, going to see movies or reading newspapers. But apart from that…
Well, apart from that there’s the beer thing I mentioned earlier. I’ve pretty much stopped that altogether. How radical a change can this really be, you may ask? Well, have you been following all those doom and gloom stories in the press about how pub takings are down and the British boozer is on the verge of extinction? I can’t help but think I’ve had a hand in this with my drastic change of habits.
So, to sum up: that’s no drink, no football, no newspapers or telly or new movies (see also books, theatre, music); and pissing off my old pals by my constant rearranging/cancelling nights out/meetings/parties. And that’s only the stuff that’s happened in that last 24 hours.
Does it get me down? Of course it does. Abso-bloody-lutely. But only until Isobella laughs or runs or smiles or says “Daddo!” or makes a soft jobby in her nappy or climbs the stairs or claps her hands or… or anything, really. In fact just to see her wipes all the difficulties away. Fourteen months ago I wouldn’t have dreamt of posting such slushy, sentimental pap on a website for all the world to see. Now, however, I don’t care. Soppy? Sure. Sentimental? You bet your ass. But with one smile from my daughter, I no longer care what anybody thinks. And that’s the biggest change of all.
Monday 18 August 2008
Dad Aid from Tim Lott
Excellent piece by Tim Lott in yesterday's Independent on Sunday on the complex joys of being the father of girls. It's ostensibly an opinion piece on how Bob Geldof must feel after his daughter ran off to Vegas to get hitched to her little drummer boyfriend of three weeks, but shines light into the complicated corners of dad-daughter relationships at the same time. Brilliant piece, a must for all dads. Find it at: http://www.independent.co.uk/incoming/tim-lott-were-helpless-there-is-nothing-like-a-fathers-love-for-his-daughter-899621.html
Monday 4 August 2008
Taking Steps
Above: Having mastered the basics indoors, Isobella makes her public walking debut in the street outside our house, a few days shy of 14 months old.
Isobella, if you're reading this, just keep walking until you reach the corner and then turn left. Go right to the end of the street until you get to the shop, where you can pick me up a copy of The Independent and this month's Record Collector mag (and a copy of Pregnancy, Baby and You, natch). Also, ask the nice man for a bottle - make that two bottles – of Meantime IPA. Yes, I know you're under age, but if you tell him they're for me I'm sure he'll understand. I'll give you the money when you get back. Ta.
(Worth a try, no?)
Tuesday 15 July 2008
Brought to Book
A version of this column featured in the June issue of Pregnancy, Baby & You magazine. My next column will be in the September 2008 issue…
I am a hoarder of useless stuff. It’s a guy thing. I will use any excuse to buy myself a book, a CD or a DVD. And I will shamelessly dub my random, space-eating collection as a “library” to dignify and justify its presence in our ever-shrinking home. At the first sign of pregnancy, I sniffed a book-buying opportunity.
My first few taps on Amazon, however, were unsuccessful at best. I typed in “Father”. Up came “My Father was a Serial Killer.” It didn’t sound helpful. I tried “Dad”. The Pocket Idiot's Guide popped up. An idiot? Me? Must be some other dad. Trying "daddy", I found a question on screen: "Did you mean 'dada'?" I didn't know if did, so I clicked on. Dada, it seems, referred to a bunch of mad artsy types who influenced the surrealists. All very nice but advice on Provider Panic from "starving", goateed, Bohemian trustafarians was really the last thing I needed.
As a last resort, I turned to the books I already had, starting with The Big One. Turning to the New Testament I thumbed the pages for a word of consolation from Joseph. Surely the earthly father of Christ could lend a hand? Not a word. Literally. In the whole of the New Testament, Joseph doesn’t utter a single peep. The message for new dads seems to be: keep your lip buttoned and just get on with it. But then, perhaps Joseph isn’t the best role model either. After all, it is one of the new dad’s responsibilities to make sure that mum and baby have a peaceful and restful environment after the birth. Yet within minutes Ol’ Joe had the place swarming with shepherds and wise men.
Towards the end of the third trimester, a friend had loaned me a copy of Ernest Hemmingway’s A Farewell to Arms. Now, I’d never read any Hemmingway before. All I knew about him was that his nickname was Papa. Appropriate, I thought. Until I encountered, towards the end of the book, a scene featuring a Caesarean section that would not have been out of place in the recent Sweeney Todd movie. Did it give me nightmares? Only when I was asleep.
All this is to make light of my trouble finding a serious, non-patronising book to help me through impending fatherhood. And this ”making light” is part of the trouble. Why is it that men can’t/won’t approach a subject seriously without making gags about it? Even in my pre-natal NCT class, when we were asked to split into groups (male and female groups) to discuss different aspects of the imminent event, the women’s heads were always huddled together deep in debate while we were roaring our heads off with laughter. If it’s not yet known as Chandler Syndrome – named for the pathologically emotionally stunted (but in a nice way) gag-cracker Chandler Bing out of Friends – then it damn well should be.
Is it an expected response? Are we playing up to the GSOH clause in all those lonely-hearts ads? “Don’t care if he looks like an even porkier, melted version of Adrian Chiles but GSOH essential”. Or are we just trying to mask the fact that we are terrified? No bad thing, this, being terrified. In fact, it’s because we’re terrified that we’re looking for a book in the first place. And round and round it goes.
Help, for me, was at hand in one of the many books my wife Karen ploughed through during the pregnancy. So much so that she remains a Delphic oracle on the subject? “Colic? Just rub coal and jam on the soles of her feet. Simple.” Yeah, right. But the book that stood out was Miriam Stoppard’s Conception, Pregnancy & Birth. I remembered Stoppard from TV in my childhood, and she proved to be a reliable advisor, stopping in the narrative from time to time to address the dad in a direct and non-patronising way, with no gags. Good old Mizza Stoppo, that's what I say.
And so, having been unable to find satisfaction in the dad books field, I started my blog to educate other would-be fathers in the ways of parenthood with hard information presented in a concise and frank fashion revealing all the mysteries once and for all. Well… no, actually, it's just a stream of daft gags and nice pics. But it does keep me cheerful. And keeping cheerful makes me a better dad. Maybe old Saint Joe was right: just shut up and get on with it.
I am a hoarder of useless stuff. It’s a guy thing. I will use any excuse to buy myself a book, a CD or a DVD. And I will shamelessly dub my random, space-eating collection as a “library” to dignify and justify its presence in our ever-shrinking home. At the first sign of pregnancy, I sniffed a book-buying opportunity.
My first few taps on Amazon, however, were unsuccessful at best. I typed in “Father”. Up came “My Father was a Serial Killer.” It didn’t sound helpful. I tried “Dad”. The Pocket Idiot's Guide popped up. An idiot? Me? Must be some other dad. Trying "daddy", I found a question on screen: "Did you mean 'dada'?" I didn't know if did, so I clicked on. Dada, it seems, referred to a bunch of mad artsy types who influenced the surrealists. All very nice but advice on Provider Panic from "starving", goateed, Bohemian trustafarians was really the last thing I needed.
As a last resort, I turned to the books I already had, starting with The Big One. Turning to the New Testament I thumbed the pages for a word of consolation from Joseph. Surely the earthly father of Christ could lend a hand? Not a word. Literally. In the whole of the New Testament, Joseph doesn’t utter a single peep. The message for new dads seems to be: keep your lip buttoned and just get on with it. But then, perhaps Joseph isn’t the best role model either. After all, it is one of the new dad’s responsibilities to make sure that mum and baby have a peaceful and restful environment after the birth. Yet within minutes Ol’ Joe had the place swarming with shepherds and wise men.
Towards the end of the third trimester, a friend had loaned me a copy of Ernest Hemmingway’s A Farewell to Arms. Now, I’d never read any Hemmingway before. All I knew about him was that his nickname was Papa. Appropriate, I thought. Until I encountered, towards the end of the book, a scene featuring a Caesarean section that would not have been out of place in the recent Sweeney Todd movie. Did it give me nightmares? Only when I was asleep.
All this is to make light of my trouble finding a serious, non-patronising book to help me through impending fatherhood. And this ”making light” is part of the trouble. Why is it that men can’t/won’t approach a subject seriously without making gags about it? Even in my pre-natal NCT class, when we were asked to split into groups (male and female groups) to discuss different aspects of the imminent event, the women’s heads were always huddled together deep in debate while we were roaring our heads off with laughter. If it’s not yet known as Chandler Syndrome – named for the pathologically emotionally stunted (but in a nice way) gag-cracker Chandler Bing out of Friends – then it damn well should be.
Is it an expected response? Are we playing up to the GSOH clause in all those lonely-hearts ads? “Don’t care if he looks like an even porkier, melted version of Adrian Chiles but GSOH essential”. Or are we just trying to mask the fact that we are terrified? No bad thing, this, being terrified. In fact, it’s because we’re terrified that we’re looking for a book in the first place. And round and round it goes.
Help, for me, was at hand in one of the many books my wife Karen ploughed through during the pregnancy. So much so that she remains a Delphic oracle on the subject? “Colic? Just rub coal and jam on the soles of her feet. Simple.” Yeah, right. But the book that stood out was Miriam Stoppard’s Conception, Pregnancy & Birth. I remembered Stoppard from TV in my childhood, and she proved to be a reliable advisor, stopping in the narrative from time to time to address the dad in a direct and non-patronising way, with no gags. Good old Mizza Stoppo, that's what I say.
And so, having been unable to find satisfaction in the dad books field, I started my blog to educate other would-be fathers in the ways of parenthood with hard information presented in a concise and frank fashion revealing all the mysteries once and for all. Well… no, actually, it's just a stream of daft gags and nice pics. But it does keep me cheerful. And keeping cheerful makes me a better dad. Maybe old Saint Joe was right: just shut up and get on with it.
Monday 14 July 2008
Pregnancy, Baby & You magazine
A version of the following appeared in the June issue of Pregnancy, Baby & You magazine in the My Story section. The July issue is on sale now...
“No kids?” other couples would ask. “No kids,” we’d reply, cool as cucumbers, non-plussed, unconcerned. If it happened, it happened, that was our attitude. And as the years passed, five, six, seven of them, people just stopped asking. Yet our easy-going attitude held true: until, that is, we went to the doctor, just to make sure.
It was only when we were told that we couldn’t have children that our minds became focused. In fact, after that, having a child was all we could think of.
We wanted a baby. That much we now knew. And we found out that one in seven couples, according to NHS Direct, experience the need for assisted conception. With IVF, there is an average success record of 15 percent. In our case, the Doctor handed us this statistic sharp end first: we had an 85 percent chance of failure. The numbers were bamboozling.
The words, which should have made sense of the numbers, only served to complicate matters further. First came “motility”. This new word, combined with plain old “low”, denoted that my sperm didn’t move very well. Combined with Karen’s age – we were just north of the “optimal” 39 mark, our chances of success now shrunk to “around” two percent. Sad-eyed shrugs and impeccable bedside manner did little to help either.
Action was the only solution. Go ahead with the procedure, give it one go, as futile as it is, and, if we make it to 80, we won’t look back and regret that we never tried. And so, pretending that everything was normal, we carried on planning our big, annual Christmas party.
Some friends showed up and announced their pregnancy. We fought a raging internal battle to be truly and genuinely happy for them. A battle, I’m pleased to say, that we won. To have added bitterness to despair would have been to dig a whole too deep to ever have clambered out of again.
After Christmas, the numbers and the words turned into a blizzard. Hycosy (a detailed examination of the womb); Progesterone injections (seven of them);
A fibroid – one of them, benign, as it turned out.
Our friends would ask: “How’s all it going?” We’d pause. In that pause we’d review the feelings of alienation, of invasion, of inadequacy at being unable to partake in the simple animal imperative of reproduction. “Oh, fine,” we’d reply, “fine…”
My mate Pete May, a West Ham nut, often says of being a West Ham supporter: “The despair I can handle: it’s the hope that kills me.” And indeed, the despair threw us together. And we stuck, tighter than ever before. Long walks, tears and talks of the unthinkable dominated that winter. I quoted Pete on one of our long rambling walks. “But there has to be hope,” said Karen. “Without hope, there’s…” At this point we turned a corner and slap bang in front of us was a pub. Its name? The Hope. We both laughed: there was Hope after all. “If we ever have a baby girl,” said Karen, “we’ll call her Hope…”
Another number came next: two. The number of eggs taken from Karen for fertilisation. Two is a low yield. But the word used by the nurse to describe them gave us hope: “magnificent”. Magnificent eggs. We dreamt immediately of twins – I know now that we both did – but at the time we each took a deep breath and looked the other way. Having been made to stare down the barrel of a scant chance for so long, this flake of good news was almost overwhelming amongst all the pain.
A funny thing, pain. If I asked you to describe your last toothache in precise and vivid detail, you couldn’t do it. Go on, try. Sore? Inadequate, isn’t it. Agony? Still doesn’t cover it. Anyway, now that it’s better, it doesn’t seem to matter, does it? Our IVF story is the same. The idea of the pain of IVF and potential childlessness haunts us still. But the news that one of the eggs had “taken”, that Karen – that we – were pregnant, delivered in an anonymous room in a corner of south east London, wiped all the months of pain away in a moment.
Are we grateful? Too small a word. But it’s impossible to live a life at such a high emotional pitch. We said we’d never complain if she woke us up in the middle of the night… but of course, we do. Besides, the pressure on Isobella to live up to the hefty billing of Miracle Baby is just too much for any person. But sometimes – the first time I fed her, the first time she waved, when she started laughing and then began to crawl – that miraculous feeling surges through us like delirium.
It turns out that Karen was right: There is Hope. Isobella Hope Scott-Goulding. She’s 10 months old now. And we still can’t believe she’s here.
“No kids?” other couples would ask. “No kids,” we’d reply, cool as cucumbers, non-plussed, unconcerned. If it happened, it happened, that was our attitude. And as the years passed, five, six, seven of them, people just stopped asking. Yet our easy-going attitude held true: until, that is, we went to the doctor, just to make sure.
It was only when we were told that we couldn’t have children that our minds became focused. In fact, after that, having a child was all we could think of.
We wanted a baby. That much we now knew. And we found out that one in seven couples, according to NHS Direct, experience the need for assisted conception. With IVF, there is an average success record of 15 percent. In our case, the Doctor handed us this statistic sharp end first: we had an 85 percent chance of failure. The numbers were bamboozling.
The words, which should have made sense of the numbers, only served to complicate matters further. First came “motility”. This new word, combined with plain old “low”, denoted that my sperm didn’t move very well. Combined with Karen’s age – we were just north of the “optimal” 39 mark, our chances of success now shrunk to “around” two percent. Sad-eyed shrugs and impeccable bedside manner did little to help either.
Action was the only solution. Go ahead with the procedure, give it one go, as futile as it is, and, if we make it to 80, we won’t look back and regret that we never tried. And so, pretending that everything was normal, we carried on planning our big, annual Christmas party.
Some friends showed up and announced their pregnancy. We fought a raging internal battle to be truly and genuinely happy for them. A battle, I’m pleased to say, that we won. To have added bitterness to despair would have been to dig a whole too deep to ever have clambered out of again.
After Christmas, the numbers and the words turned into a blizzard. Hycosy (a detailed examination of the womb); Progesterone injections (seven of them);
A fibroid – one of them, benign, as it turned out.
Our friends would ask: “How’s all it going?” We’d pause. In that pause we’d review the feelings of alienation, of invasion, of inadequacy at being unable to partake in the simple animal imperative of reproduction. “Oh, fine,” we’d reply, “fine…”
My mate Pete May, a West Ham nut, often says of being a West Ham supporter: “The despair I can handle: it’s the hope that kills me.” And indeed, the despair threw us together. And we stuck, tighter than ever before. Long walks, tears and talks of the unthinkable dominated that winter. I quoted Pete on one of our long rambling walks. “But there has to be hope,” said Karen. “Without hope, there’s…” At this point we turned a corner and slap bang in front of us was a pub. Its name? The Hope. We both laughed: there was Hope after all. “If we ever have a baby girl,” said Karen, “we’ll call her Hope…”
Another number came next: two. The number of eggs taken from Karen for fertilisation. Two is a low yield. But the word used by the nurse to describe them gave us hope: “magnificent”. Magnificent eggs. We dreamt immediately of twins – I know now that we both did – but at the time we each took a deep breath and looked the other way. Having been made to stare down the barrel of a scant chance for so long, this flake of good news was almost overwhelming amongst all the pain.
A funny thing, pain. If I asked you to describe your last toothache in precise and vivid detail, you couldn’t do it. Go on, try. Sore? Inadequate, isn’t it. Agony? Still doesn’t cover it. Anyway, now that it’s better, it doesn’t seem to matter, does it? Our IVF story is the same. The idea of the pain of IVF and potential childlessness haunts us still. But the news that one of the eggs had “taken”, that Karen – that we – were pregnant, delivered in an anonymous room in a corner of south east London, wiped all the months of pain away in a moment.
Are we grateful? Too small a word. But it’s impossible to live a life at such a high emotional pitch. We said we’d never complain if she woke us up in the middle of the night… but of course, we do. Besides, the pressure on Isobella to live up to the hefty billing of Miracle Baby is just too much for any person. But sometimes – the first time I fed her, the first time she waved, when she started laughing and then began to crawl – that miraculous feeling surges through us like delirium.
It turns out that Karen was right: There is Hope. Isobella Hope Scott-Goulding. She’s 10 months old now. And we still can’t believe she’s here.
Tuesday 24 June 2008
Dumbstruck
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.
Zachariah, I know how you feel, mate.
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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