For most of my twenties, I didn't want kids. I found them annoying, needy and expensive. I was prepared to admit that one day I might change my mind, but I certainly didn't feel any pressing need to procreate. Over the last five years, things changed a bit, and for various predictable reasons my desire to have children of my own grew a fair bit to the point where I would say 'I definitely want them one day.' But still, I rarely felt broody. The only exception to that would be when I seriously fancied a guy, or while I was in a relationship, when my libido and my desire for kids would skyrocket together, but I've been single for a long time, and haven't fancied anyone of note for quite a while, so at the moment, my desires are low. I remained sure, however, that I would try and have babies at some point in the future. Until this weekend.
I spent Friday and Saturday nights in Oxfordshire at my friend Lucy's house, where she lives with her husband, her nearly-four year old daughter and her two year old son. And let me say right from the start, they are seriously good kids - not just from the perspective of well-behaved etc., but from an outsider's point of view, someone such as myself who'd need marketing to, they are excellent examples of their genres - the girl is very pretty with long hair and an amazing Cupid's-bow mouth, and the boy has huge wide blue eyes that he narrows winningly in a Blue Steel fashion to win over girls. He has quite nicely chubby cheeks and goes adorably red-faced when he's upset. They like to play games, they run around happily, the boy has a winning lisp, they go to sleep when they're expected to, they eat pretty much what they're given - it's all very good. But I realised this weekend that my other main experience of kids has been with my friend Nicole, who lives not far away in Gloucestershire and has three daughters but, crucially, has an au pair. Luce and Jake have help on three days when she goes to work, but other than that, they're on their own. This weekend, as it is for most families most of the time, it was just them and the kids - and me - and I think I found the amount of work quite a shock. I'll rephrase that. I definitely found it a shock.
I want to want kids, don't get me wrong. I think having them is the most natural thing in the world, and I look at people who've already got a nipper or two and feel like they are somehow more justified than I am: they've done the one thing that we're really here to do, whereas I'm just selfishly drifting along. More than just biologically, kids have appealed massively to me: they are endlessly fascinating. I loved tutoring them and I really enjoy the interactions I have with them, whatever their age. But god, the relentlessness of it this weekend, the Every Single Dayness of it, the utter sacrifice, the patience, the selflessness - I just don't know if I've got it. Lucy loves it, she loves being needed, she loves being a mother. Perhaps as a result, she is very good at it - and I'm sure her kids will be assets. I think mine might be asses.
Of course, this is all very fortunate, since I am about as likely to get pregnant as duet with The Wiggles, but even though it's totally hypothetical, it's still an interesting shift, and does make my hopes and plans for the future look a little odd. And I know, people say it's different when they're your own, and things will change if I meet a guy I love, but the fact is, I'm just not sure I can do it, and the world certainly doesn't need any more mouths to feed. Maybe I just shouldn't add to the number. I'm pretty sure it's the kind of thing you should be pretty sure about before getting involved.
Anyway. It was an interesting weekend. I ate Shane Warne's weight in chocolate mousse, plus Celebrations, wine, lamb, potatoes, fish, homemade pizza with puff pastry base, toast, cereal ack ack ack. Delicious. Jake and I lost to Luce, Em and Erf at Trivial Pursuit, which was annoying, but my pain was more than calmed by the discovery of an incredibly compelling group TV watching experience called 1000 Ways To Die, a couple of long hilly walks, clusters of snowdrops peeking through the grass, a relaxing hungover Sunday morning watching Andy Murray scream at his mum and trainer to shut up like the petulant dinosaur he is, many interesting discussions round the dinner table and two really good nights' sleep. A great break from the smoke, but, as always, the familiarity of the plentiful strangers were a welcome sight as I caught the tube back home yesterday evening. Friends rock but the perspective given by anonymity is vital too. I'm off to be acupunctured. Will report back tomorrow. Ohhhhmmmmmmmm.
Showing posts with label Babies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Babies. Show all posts
Monday, 31 January 2011
Monday, 7 September 2009
Biological Crock
On the train down to Nicole's on Friday, I listened to The First Days of Spring, the new album by one of the vanguard of the nu-folk revival, Noah and the Whale. A break-up record in the old tradition, it charts lead singer Charlie Fink's faltering steps into singledom after his break-up with folk's sweetheart, Laura Marling. His voice is a bit rubbish but the music is pleasant enough; the lyrics, however, are painful - not (only) because they are (in places) quite bad, but because of the rawness of the emotions they express - the eponymous opening track illustrates Fink's optimism following the change in seasons, but then the music quietens right down and he admits that he's "still here, hoping that one day you may come back." It's uncomfortable in its honesty and, as a young lady who's been pretty honest in her time, I can't help wincing pre-emptively at the thought of how 23-year-old Fink will feel in a few years' time. Listening to the songs, I didn't think, "Oh, poor you," but rather, "C'mon lad. I know, it hurts, but don't tell everyone. You'll feel better soon and trust me, you'll want to forget all about this, not sing it night after night on stage."
It's one of life's harsh truths that it's alright to be happy and gushing about love when you're in it - but when you're not, for god's sake you mustn't appear to want it. In fact, scratch that - you can't want it at all, not even secretly, because They Can Smell The Desperation. And the older you get, the less you must want it. Instead, you must be happy on your own, content with your independence, peacefully enjoying your life, safe in the knowledge that "it'll happen when you least expect it" and "if it's meant to be, it'll be."
I can't argue with any of the above. It's undoubtedly true that on the occasions where some maniac has really, really wanted a relationship with me, I've found them needy and desperate, and I am way more likely to steer clear. Conversely, commitment-phobes are irritatingly attractive and I become moth-like in my persistence, outraged that they don't seem to be swayed by my numerous charms. Of course, should said commitment-phobes change their minds and decide they now think I am the best thing since loaf met knife, I will almost certainly lose all respect for them within a matter of seconds. It's not my fault, it's human nature, and it happens to almost all of us.
But still, it's tricky. As you will know if you've been paying attention, I have no Significant Other at present. And, as I've said before (but hopefully not to the point where I cross the line from easy, confident opining to the lady protesting too much), I know that this situation is the right thing for me right now. I'm as sure as anyone can be that my future is bright. And I can honestly, hand on heart, say that I am happy without kids right now. If I could click my fingers and be crazy in love and pregnant, I wouldn't. I have a fair bit of travelling I want to do before I have nippers, for a start. But, just like every other single woman of my age, I am painfully, daily aware that, medically speaking, I should be having my kids now, even though psychologically, I would be perfectly happy to wait another seven or eight years before producing offspring. I've always wanted to hang out with the father of my children for a while before he becomes the father to my children, rather than calculating whether I'm ovulating as I sprint down the aisle. But as I stood drunkenly over tiny Isla's cot at about 2.30am on Sunday morning, stroking her back and marvelling at the grip of her little hand around my index finger, I very nearly cried. Of course, the booze was talking, but I had a rare moment of stampy foot childishness, because fundamentally, it's Not Fair. I'm 32. I have a fantastically fortunate life. I can do pretty much whatever I want: I'm a pro-active person who Gets Things Done. But ultimately, the thing I want most in my future is unequivocally beyond my control. There is absolutely jack shit women can do about wanting kids, except make sure that they never think or talk about wanting kids, because if they visibly want them, they're desperate and thus less likely to have them. God boys have it easy. Sure, a lot of 32 year old men want kids too, and can't find the right woman to mother them. But the time pressure simply doesn't exist in the same way, and it blows.
What is true is that devoting any time or space to this is absolutely, undoubtedly, 100% pointless. When I am in a position to start trying to have kids in the future, there's no guarantee that I or my chosen partner will both be fertile. And, of course, even if I have a gorgeous baby this time in four years, I may get hit by a bus in five. There is no way of knowing or planning for the future, so the task in hand is to enjoy the present and live for the moment. The only thing I can do is be as happy and funny and pleasant and lovely as possible. And mostly I do that pretty well. Just not so much when a gorgeous 13-month-old is staring up at me through sleepy eyes and gripping my finger when I've had a skinful of wine and been emotionally charged by an hilarious dinner and a viewing of The X Factor. From now on, babies and I will only come into contact during times of total sobriety, when I will be able to see them as the selfish, demanding, uncompromising, irrational, dependent, helpless, dribbling, mucous-producing, money-draining, sleep-depriving, life-as-we-know-it-ending creatures they really are. You live and learn.
It's one of life's harsh truths that it's alright to be happy and gushing about love when you're in it - but when you're not, for god's sake you mustn't appear to want it. In fact, scratch that - you can't want it at all, not even secretly, because They Can Smell The Desperation. And the older you get, the less you must want it. Instead, you must be happy on your own, content with your independence, peacefully enjoying your life, safe in the knowledge that "it'll happen when you least expect it" and "if it's meant to be, it'll be."
I can't argue with any of the above. It's undoubtedly true that on the occasions where some maniac has really, really wanted a relationship with me, I've found them needy and desperate, and I am way more likely to steer clear. Conversely, commitment-phobes are irritatingly attractive and I become moth-like in my persistence, outraged that they don't seem to be swayed by my numerous charms. Of course, should said commitment-phobes change their minds and decide they now think I am the best thing since loaf met knife, I will almost certainly lose all respect for them within a matter of seconds. It's not my fault, it's human nature, and it happens to almost all of us.
But still, it's tricky. As you will know if you've been paying attention, I have no Significant Other at present. And, as I've said before (but hopefully not to the point where I cross the line from easy, confident opining to the lady protesting too much), I know that this situation is the right thing for me right now. I'm as sure as anyone can be that my future is bright. And I can honestly, hand on heart, say that I am happy without kids right now. If I could click my fingers and be crazy in love and pregnant, I wouldn't. I have a fair bit of travelling I want to do before I have nippers, for a start. But, just like every other single woman of my age, I am painfully, daily aware that, medically speaking, I should be having my kids now, even though psychologically, I would be perfectly happy to wait another seven or eight years before producing offspring. I've always wanted to hang out with the father of my children for a while before he becomes the father to my children, rather than calculating whether I'm ovulating as I sprint down the aisle. But as I stood drunkenly over tiny Isla's cot at about 2.30am on Sunday morning, stroking her back and marvelling at the grip of her little hand around my index finger, I very nearly cried. Of course, the booze was talking, but I had a rare moment of stampy foot childishness, because fundamentally, it's Not Fair. I'm 32. I have a fantastically fortunate life. I can do pretty much whatever I want: I'm a pro-active person who Gets Things Done. But ultimately, the thing I want most in my future is unequivocally beyond my control. There is absolutely jack shit women can do about wanting kids, except make sure that they never think or talk about wanting kids, because if they visibly want them, they're desperate and thus less likely to have them. God boys have it easy. Sure, a lot of 32 year old men want kids too, and can't find the right woman to mother them. But the time pressure simply doesn't exist in the same way, and it blows.
What is true is that devoting any time or space to this is absolutely, undoubtedly, 100% pointless. When I am in a position to start trying to have kids in the future, there's no guarantee that I or my chosen partner will both be fertile. And, of course, even if I have a gorgeous baby this time in four years, I may get hit by a bus in five. There is no way of knowing or planning for the future, so the task in hand is to enjoy the present and live for the moment. The only thing I can do is be as happy and funny and pleasant and lovely as possible. And mostly I do that pretty well. Just not so much when a gorgeous 13-month-old is staring up at me through sleepy eyes and gripping my finger when I've had a skinful of wine and been emotionally charged by an hilarious dinner and a viewing of The X Factor. From now on, babies and I will only come into contact during times of total sobriety, when I will be able to see them as the selfish, demanding, uncompromising, irrational, dependent, helpless, dribbling, mucous-producing, money-draining, sleep-depriving, life-as-we-know-it-ending creatures they really are. You live and learn.
Tuesday, 9 June 2009
Egyptian Men and Mummies
Of all the men in all the tourist destinations in all the Arabic countries in the world who stand outside on the street asking/begging women to eat at their minging restaurant/buy their badly made tourist tat/trust them with their lives and let them drive them home/marry them, I wonder if any of them, ever, have had an answer in the positive. I simply have no idea why they bother. "All my life, all I have been looking for, eet iz you, madam, you are so byoootiful, please, please do me the honour...?" Has that ever worked? Do they know someone who knows someone who once walked the dog of someone who asked a blonde in the street to come home with them, and she said yes? It is simply staggering.
But then, when in some ways so much is different, then suddenly everything is the same. Yesterday I was lying by the pool surrounded by three mothers, one English, one Estonian, one German, all of whom had babies under three months, all of whom lived in Dahab with their husbands/boyfriends, and all they did, all day, from approx. 10am til about 4pm, was talk about their offspring. It was breathtakingly boring. Then again, all I did during the same time was try to get a tan. I doubt I was particularly interesting. But in my head, I was scintillating. They, on the other hand, made ditch-water look like a sparkling dinner party companion.
All is well here, though. I have never been whiter, of course, but that is inevitable for any hot holiday I go on. I have made friends, yoga is brilliant and I managed the crow pose for all of a second yesterday before falling forward into a somersault. Last night we went to a restaurant for dinner and had Egyptian cabernet sauvignon which stripped approximately three layers of skin from my throat and larynx. Miraculously, it became more delicious after a few glasses. Today I have been playing Would You Rather...? by the pool with Lucy and Clare. Tomorrow I am going snorkeling. I am eating a lot of fig rolls. The binding of the Paul Auster book gave up and so I had to abandon ship and start Margaret Atwood. There's more to tell but this keyboard is unbelievably sticky and I am getting aching wrists.
But then, when in some ways so much is different, then suddenly everything is the same. Yesterday I was lying by the pool surrounded by three mothers, one English, one Estonian, one German, all of whom had babies under three months, all of whom lived in Dahab with their husbands/boyfriends, and all they did, all day, from approx. 10am til about 4pm, was talk about their offspring. It was breathtakingly boring. Then again, all I did during the same time was try to get a tan. I doubt I was particularly interesting. But in my head, I was scintillating. They, on the other hand, made ditch-water look like a sparkling dinner party companion.
All is well here, though. I have never been whiter, of course, but that is inevitable for any hot holiday I go on. I have made friends, yoga is brilliant and I managed the crow pose for all of a second yesterday before falling forward into a somersault. Last night we went to a restaurant for dinner and had Egyptian cabernet sauvignon which stripped approximately three layers of skin from my throat and larynx. Miraculously, it became more delicious after a few glasses. Today I have been playing Would You Rather...? by the pool with Lucy and Clare. Tomorrow I am going snorkeling. I am eating a lot of fig rolls. The binding of the Paul Auster book gave up and so I had to abandon ship and start Margaret Atwood. There's more to tell but this keyboard is unbelievably sticky and I am getting aching wrists.
Tuesday, 13 January 2009
Happy New Year, LLFF-style
Better late than never...? I'm sorry, I really am. There probably isn't even a Faithful any more. I'm sure you must have given up on me by now and found other fun blogs that get updated hourly. And I wouldn't blame you, really I wouldn't.
The problem with blogging is that it's a habit. And I've got out of it. I'll try and become addicted again, honest guv'nor, but as I've said so many times before, my desire to blog is in direct proportion to my happiness. If I'm feeling miserable, if my life is a bit shit, I love to blog. It allows me to vent my frustrations and it makes me feel heard, even important, just for a few seconds. But when I'm happy, I don't need the reassurance that someone, somewhere, cares about my life. Because when I'm happy, I think my life is great. So really, with me, no news is good news. That said, I miss my blog when it's not there. On the (naturally rare) occasions that I'm feeling self-indulgent, I like to check back and see what I've been up to. And when I realise there's been no entry for days on end, I do share your miffedness. I will try and be better, starting today.
So, what is there to say, after all this time? New Year was hilarious. I was lunged at by a man in a Mr Incredible costume, who got caught leaning in to me by his girlfriend. I don't think their start to 2009 was too harmonious... My New Year's Resolution, for the third year running, is to do a parachute jump. I was going to write 'I'll get that sorted in 2009 if it kills me' but perhaps that's inappropriate. Of course, that phrase actually means 'If the effort of getting it sorted kills me' but it's easily misunderstood and I wouldn't want the Fates to get muddled and organise for me to die on the way down... Oh god. Maybe I'll leave it for a while.
I went to see Oedipus at the National and it was genuinely crap. Ralph Fiennes is more wooden than a densely packed, very tall, very large expanse of forestry land, surrounded by tightly-constructed oak fences and several full-scale replicas of the Ark. I simply cannot believe that he is considered to be such a good actor. He even made one of those long, gutteral groans that last about fifteen seconds to indicate some sort of internal turmoil. I got the giggles. And the actor playing Jocasta, his wife-mother, was no better - a grumpy, frumpy old fag-hag with bra bulges and a clompy walk whose inexplicable, unjustifiable denial of the situation as it unfurled was not made even remotely convincing. Crap. It was literally crap, I tell you.
At the cinema, I've seen Gomorrah, Burn After Reading and The Reader. Gomorrah was interesting - about the mafia in contemporary Italy cities. Compelling and enlightening, but not much fun, and quite long. Burn After Reading was massively disappointing and, I think, marks the end of my relationship with the Coens. I loved loved loved the two guys in the US secret service who were trying to make sense of what was going on, but everything else seemed hammy, self-aware, smug and irritating. I can't believe I'm criticising a movie that features Frances McDormand, but there it is. The Reader was good although a bit schmaltzy in places, and bloody Ralph Fiennes was in it (although a fraction more bearable in this role than in Oedipus) but it was good story, the young actor was fantastic and I'd recommend it. Can't WAIT to see Revolutionary Road. I almost cried in the trailer on Sunday, but then again, if you put Nina Simone in the soundtrack, it's pretty much a shoe-in. It's all go at the cinema at the moment.
In TV, I am currently obsessed with high-brow masterworks such as Celebrity Big Brother, Harry Hill's TV Burp and Celebrity Come Dine With Me. There has been quite a lot of giggling going on. You may scoff, but I defy anyone to watch Ulrika Johnnson and Verne Troyer dressed up as Lionel and Diana, singing a lens-shattering version of Endless Love, and not break into a giggle.
Outside the culture millieu, I've been eating less and exercising more, which has been good. I am feeling fitter and pretty perky. I've been on approximately a gazillion dates, all of which have been funny or hopeless or terrible or interesting in some way, but none of which have given me even the remotest hint of butterflies. But I am not really that bothered at the moment. No rush innit. Every time I see a baby I get the fear, I'm afraid. I love them, don't get me wrong. But I'm not ready to be a parent just yet. That said, I always say that when I'm single. As soon as I fall for someone, my biological clock seems to spring into action, brush the dust off itself briskly and start to tick with a volume that feels as though it must be audible to unsuspecting passers-by.
Right. That's enough from me for one day. No need to go into overdrive. And anyway, I need to guard my strength as I've just given blood. Aren't I a good girl?
The problem with blogging is that it's a habit. And I've got out of it. I'll try and become addicted again, honest guv'nor, but as I've said so many times before, my desire to blog is in direct proportion to my happiness. If I'm feeling miserable, if my life is a bit shit, I love to blog. It allows me to vent my frustrations and it makes me feel heard, even important, just for a few seconds. But when I'm happy, I don't need the reassurance that someone, somewhere, cares about my life. Because when I'm happy, I think my life is great. So really, with me, no news is good news. That said, I miss my blog when it's not there. On the (naturally rare) occasions that I'm feeling self-indulgent, I like to check back and see what I've been up to. And when I realise there's been no entry for days on end, I do share your miffedness. I will try and be better, starting today.
So, what is there to say, after all this time? New Year was hilarious. I was lunged at by a man in a Mr Incredible costume, who got caught leaning in to me by his girlfriend. I don't think their start to 2009 was too harmonious... My New Year's Resolution, for the third year running, is to do a parachute jump. I was going to write 'I'll get that sorted in 2009 if it kills me' but perhaps that's inappropriate. Of course, that phrase actually means 'If the effort of getting it sorted kills me' but it's easily misunderstood and I wouldn't want the Fates to get muddled and organise for me to die on the way down... Oh god. Maybe I'll leave it for a while.
I went to see Oedipus at the National and it was genuinely crap. Ralph Fiennes is more wooden than a densely packed, very tall, very large expanse of forestry land, surrounded by tightly-constructed oak fences and several full-scale replicas of the Ark. I simply cannot believe that he is considered to be such a good actor. He even made one of those long, gutteral groans that last about fifteen seconds to indicate some sort of internal turmoil. I got the giggles. And the actor playing Jocasta, his wife-mother, was no better - a grumpy, frumpy old fag-hag with bra bulges and a clompy walk whose inexplicable, unjustifiable denial of the situation as it unfurled was not made even remotely convincing. Crap. It was literally crap, I tell you.
At the cinema, I've seen Gomorrah, Burn After Reading and The Reader. Gomorrah was interesting - about the mafia in contemporary Italy cities. Compelling and enlightening, but not much fun, and quite long. Burn After Reading was massively disappointing and, I think, marks the end of my relationship with the Coens. I loved loved loved the two guys in the US secret service who were trying to make sense of what was going on, but everything else seemed hammy, self-aware, smug and irritating. I can't believe I'm criticising a movie that features Frances McDormand, but there it is. The Reader was good although a bit schmaltzy in places, and bloody Ralph Fiennes was in it (although a fraction more bearable in this role than in Oedipus) but it was good story, the young actor was fantastic and I'd recommend it. Can't WAIT to see Revolutionary Road. I almost cried in the trailer on Sunday, but then again, if you put Nina Simone in the soundtrack, it's pretty much a shoe-in. It's all go at the cinema at the moment.
In TV, I am currently obsessed with high-brow masterworks such as Celebrity Big Brother, Harry Hill's TV Burp and Celebrity Come Dine With Me. There has been quite a lot of giggling going on. You may scoff, but I defy anyone to watch Ulrika Johnnson and Verne Troyer dressed up as Lionel and Diana, singing a lens-shattering version of Endless Love, and not break into a giggle.
Outside the culture millieu, I've been eating less and exercising more, which has been good. I am feeling fitter and pretty perky. I've been on approximately a gazillion dates, all of which have been funny or hopeless or terrible or interesting in some way, but none of which have given me even the remotest hint of butterflies. But I am not really that bothered at the moment. No rush innit. Every time I see a baby I get the fear, I'm afraid. I love them, don't get me wrong. But I'm not ready to be a parent just yet. That said, I always say that when I'm single. As soon as I fall for someone, my biological clock seems to spring into action, brush the dust off itself briskly and start to tick with a volume that feels as though it must be audible to unsuspecting passers-by.
Right. That's enough from me for one day. No need to go into overdrive. And anyway, I need to guard my strength as I've just given blood. Aren't I a good girl?
Thursday, 11 September 2008
Hair today...?
So I think I may be hungover again. There's something about book club that makes me suck up wine like a knackered camel at an oasis. I don't think I actually drank that much last night but certainly my contributions to our long-awaited conversation about Alistair Campbell's gripping Blair diaries were less meaningful and succinct than I had anticipated. Shame.
I was also distracted by Charlotte's blissful 15 month old daughter, Emily, who had a cold which was brilliant as it meant she couldn't sleep and was allowed to come back downstairs after dinner to entertain us all (and distract us from Alistair). She sat on Charlotte's lap, facing out and staring at us with mesmerising eyes the size of tennis balls, and we played her new favourite game, Hey Pesto, which involved putting her toy rabbit in an empty cardboard brownie box, methodically shutting the lid, then opening the lid and taking out the rabbit. We did this perhaps thirty five times and then we played pass the spoon. Don't ask.
I am panicking because I think the Republicans are going to win the election in the States, thanks to Sarah 'Vlad the Im' Palin. Obama's not helping by calling her a pig though.
And now it's Thursday. This week has flown by in a flurry of social engagements and vanity. After a tricky day yesterday, I tried to alter my hair this morning by blow drying it while hanging my head upside down - I thought this might add some kookiness and 'lift' but instead it looks like I've rubbed it all over with gorse. I may have to start wearing more hats until it grows. Or perhaps I should settle this once and for all and go for a skinhead. Thoughts welcome...
I was also distracted by Charlotte's blissful 15 month old daughter, Emily, who had a cold which was brilliant as it meant she couldn't sleep and was allowed to come back downstairs after dinner to entertain us all (and distract us from Alistair). She sat on Charlotte's lap, facing out and staring at us with mesmerising eyes the size of tennis balls, and we played her new favourite game, Hey Pesto, which involved putting her toy rabbit in an empty cardboard brownie box, methodically shutting the lid, then opening the lid and taking out the rabbit. We did this perhaps thirty five times and then we played pass the spoon. Don't ask.
I am panicking because I think the Republicans are going to win the election in the States, thanks to Sarah 'Vlad the Im' Palin. Obama's not helping by calling her a pig though.
And now it's Thursday. This week has flown by in a flurry of social engagements and vanity. After a tricky day yesterday, I tried to alter my hair this morning by blow drying it while hanging my head upside down - I thought this might add some kookiness and 'lift' but instead it looks like I've rubbed it all over with gorse. I may have to start wearing more hats until it grows. Or perhaps I should settle this once and for all and go for a skinhead. Thoughts welcome...
Monday, 21 April 2008
Freudian car crash
If, like me, you are in the early stages of a new relationship, try not to have a conversation like the following:
[Scene: Soho pub, PAUL seated at bar, JANE standing next to him. CROWDS around them]
JANE: [Looking down at a business card] So what's the difference between a Copyright symbol and a Registered Trademark symbol?
PAUL: Well, a trademark is registering just the mark itself, the logo - whereas if something has a copyright symbol you are protecting something more complex, a design.
JANE: So my tattoo [points to her tiny tattoo, a copyright symbol] is correct – I shouldn’t be a registered trademark?
PAUL: No, your tattoo is correct. But hey, what are you going to do when you have children?
JANE: What about it?
PAUL: Well, if you’re copyright, then when you have kids they’ll be in breach of copyright. They’ll be an unauthorised derivative of you.
JANE: But they won’t really be a copy of me.
PAUL: Why not?
JANE: Well, because they’ll be half me and half you.
[Room goes silent, lights go out, cue ball suddenly stops on snooker table, thunder rumbles outside followed by a crack of lightning]
Yes dear readers, the horror is genuine, the cringe is justified. After less than three months with Paul, I casually began our Saturday night with the relaxing suggestion that ‘when’ I have children, they’ll be his.
Immediately, my whole body stiffened and, despite the absence of mirrors, I am fairly confident that my face looked like someone had recently left me in the Greek sun for eight hours, returning only to baste me occasionally with Lurpak and paprika. My left index finger inexplicably tensed and hooked over my rigid lower teeth as I turned and walked away, giggling uncontrollably and unable to look Paul in the eye. I mean, seriously. If there’s one thing we’re taught in How To Be A Girl classes, it’s ‘For the sake of all women, never, EVER mention babies. Just don’t do it.’ And yet, there I was, 7.30pm, not even drunk and merrily planning our offspring.
Luckily, Paul seemed to take things quite well and laughingly dragged me back towards him. I did notice, however, that he drained the rest of his pint in a matter of seconds after The Incident and I don’t know that I’ll be so lucky next time.
[Scene: Soho pub, PAUL seated at bar, JANE standing next to him. CROWDS around them]
JANE: [Looking down at a business card] So what's the difference between a Copyright symbol and a Registered Trademark symbol?
PAUL: Well, a trademark is registering just the mark itself, the logo - whereas if something has a copyright symbol you are protecting something more complex, a design.
JANE: So my tattoo [points to her tiny tattoo, a copyright symbol] is correct – I shouldn’t be a registered trademark?
PAUL: No, your tattoo is correct. But hey, what are you going to do when you have children?
JANE: What about it?
PAUL: Well, if you’re copyright, then when you have kids they’ll be in breach of copyright. They’ll be an unauthorised derivative of you.
JANE: But they won’t really be a copy of me.
PAUL: Why not?
JANE: Well, because they’ll be half me and half you.
[Room goes silent, lights go out, cue ball suddenly stops on snooker table, thunder rumbles outside followed by a crack of lightning]
Yes dear readers, the horror is genuine, the cringe is justified. After less than three months with Paul, I casually began our Saturday night with the relaxing suggestion that ‘when’ I have children, they’ll be his.
Immediately, my whole body stiffened and, despite the absence of mirrors, I am fairly confident that my face looked like someone had recently left me in the Greek sun for eight hours, returning only to baste me occasionally with Lurpak and paprika. My left index finger inexplicably tensed and hooked over my rigid lower teeth as I turned and walked away, giggling uncontrollably and unable to look Paul in the eye. I mean, seriously. If there’s one thing we’re taught in How To Be A Girl classes, it’s ‘For the sake of all women, never, EVER mention babies. Just don’t do it.’ And yet, there I was, 7.30pm, not even drunk and merrily planning our offspring.
Luckily, Paul seemed to take things quite well and laughingly dragged me back towards him. I did notice, however, that he drained the rest of his pint in a matter of seconds after The Incident and I don’t know that I’ll be so lucky next time.
Friday, 27 April 2007
Welcome Matilda
My friends have had a baby. I went to see it yesterday with Emily and it was quite something. Matilda is very small and exceptionally sweet, with huge blue eyes that are spellbinding. Sometimes she crosses her eyes and screws up her mouth into a tiny O and then she seems like a possible emigrant from another galaxy. But most of the time she is the embodiment of perfection. She is even able to write her own blog.
What was really miraculous, however, was not so much Matilda herself, but her mother, whose body has been turned into a feeding machine overnight. Lucy seemed blissfully resigned to this four-day-old state of affairs. I was brimming with admiration for her and daddy Jake who danced a whimpering Matilda around the room with unexpected but touching patience.
As far as I can see, the best thing about being new parents must be the food – luxury biscuits and dips and exotic teas were coming out of the family’s every pore – and the new mum in particular has a newly-vacated abdominal space in which to put these tasty items. Her self-control in the face of cookies was inspiring. My weight graph has plateaued for the past three days despite frequent exercise and abstinence from almost everything fun except baby visits. Although there was that delicious prawn curry on Wednesday night. And the handful of self-brought Marks and Spencer’s chocolate éclairs that I scoffed while we were visiting Matilda, and the fact I didn’t make it to the gym yesterday and instead went shopping for miniscule clothing, which was far more fun but may have slimmed my bank balance more than my thighs. Hopefully my miserable lunch of emetic canteen bubble and squeak soup will bring the graph plummeting towards its pre-holiday goal. If not, I’ll be the one sunbathing in a full length dressing gown.
What was really miraculous, however, was not so much Matilda herself, but her mother, whose body has been turned into a feeding machine overnight. Lucy seemed blissfully resigned to this four-day-old state of affairs. I was brimming with admiration for her and daddy Jake who danced a whimpering Matilda around the room with unexpected but touching patience.
As far as I can see, the best thing about being new parents must be the food – luxury biscuits and dips and exotic teas were coming out of the family’s every pore – and the new mum in particular has a newly-vacated abdominal space in which to put these tasty items. Her self-control in the face of cookies was inspiring. My weight graph has plateaued for the past three days despite frequent exercise and abstinence from almost everything fun except baby visits. Although there was that delicious prawn curry on Wednesday night. And the handful of self-brought Marks and Spencer’s chocolate éclairs that I scoffed while we were visiting Matilda, and the fact I didn’t make it to the gym yesterday and instead went shopping for miniscule clothing, which was far more fun but may have slimmed my bank balance more than my thighs. Hopefully my miserable lunch of emetic canteen bubble and squeak soup will bring the graph plummeting towards its pre-holiday goal. If not, I’ll be the one sunbathing in a full length dressing gown.
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