The Fall and Rise of 'Irrepressible Don'

So it was this morning that we awaited our first Christmas card ever from Miles.

I suggested that we should brace ourselves for something lewd – given his track record. Maude told me that I was being unkind and that she expected something quite tasteful – in the light of Miles’ recent company record-breaking earnings in commission.

Indeed Miles has proved to be quite a hit with his new employers. His silky South Shields tones are much in demand to close double-glazing deals across Wiltshire and North Somerset. He proudly told us that he had been highlighted as ‘Salesman of the Month’ in the company magazine.

‘They called me Irrepressible!’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Maude.

‘Unfortunately…’ he continued, ‘they got my name wrong and called me ‘Don’, but that was just a mix-up’.

The ‘card’ duly arrived. It was a picture of a naked Miles running into the sea, signed ‘Don x’.

I didn’t gloat. I just pegged it to the string of more conventional Christmas cards which stretch up the banister.

Aurora now insists on a range of toys and nick nacks before she will go up the wooden hill to bed:
'Piggy!' (cuddly toy)
'Baby!' (spooky, battered doll)
'Cards!' (an already incomplete set of miniature playing cards from a Christmas cracker)
along with her collection of monster figures:
‘Green Monster’
‘Blue Monster!’
‘One-Eye!’

Daddy acts as beast of burden for all of the above.
As we ascended the stairs tonight Aurora stopped midway and began to grimace. I thought that I had forgotten something.

‘What is it darling? Has Daddy forgotten something?’

‘Give me monsters Daddy, now!’

I considered the request and decided that she could be trusted to carry her own monster figures without tumbling down the stairs. She reached out and collected green, blue and one-eye. She didn’t, however, continue straight up to bed. Instead Aurora paused by the image of ‘Don’. Poppet looked through her handful of monsters and decided that ‘one-eye’ was the man for the job. Assuming the stance of a priest exorcising a malevolent spirit, she held 'one-eye' at arm's length in front of the image and shouted:

‘Sea Monster, go home!’

A Star for Daddy

We realised last week that Aurora had reached a difficult stage in her development. Maude did some research and discovered that it was quite a common development for 2 year old children and was generally referred to as ‘negativism’.

‘Do you want to put your coat on?

‘No’

Do you want to go to the park?’

‘No. Don’t want to go park!’

And so on.

Further research suggested that a reward system was the way forward. Small toddler treats were placed in a jar and a star-chart placed on the fridge door. Maude used a flipchart to demonstrate how the system worked:

Behave well
Get star
Collect 5 stars
Get pretty thing from jar

The system soon paid dividends. Aurora got dressed without complaint and stopped hitting Daddy over the head with the heaviest storybook she could find – all for the promise of a star.

Imagine my lack of surprise when I came down to breakfast earlier this week to a new star chart on the fridge. No, Maude was not making very early preparations for our next child (due in the new year). The new reward sheet was entitled ‘Daddy’:

Agree with Mummy/make tea/don’t tarry on way home
Get star
Collect 10 stars
Have one pint (no crisps) with Benny

Old Dog

Miles called again this morning.

'Did you get my Christmas card yet?’

I explained that we hadn’t had the post, but looked forward to getting the card about which he had called several times.

‘It’s because he has turned over a new leaf this year and sending us a Christmas card is highly symbolic.’

Maude always respects the turning over of new leaves.

Miles did recently change career. Being a drug liaison worker in the West Country had lost its allure and he made the natural switch to the selling of double-glazing.

His drug liaison colleagues had judged him harshly after a misunderstanding involving a digital camera at a civil partnership ceremony. Miles had been using his girlfriend’s camera for the day. After what he thought was a particularly handsome shot of the happy couple, Miles passed the camera to the new partners to review his efforts. Unfortunately he had forgotten that the camera contained some intimate documentary footage of his relationship with Gloria. The groom and groom held the camera together, flanked by their mothers and genuinely moved by Miles’ interest in their big day (the unkind office consensus persisted that Miles was an unreconstructed Geordie who had 'fallen into' social work).

It is so easy to scroll the wrong way through someone else’s memories if one is unfamiliar with a given camera.

‘It wasn’t my fault,’ Miles told me later. ‘The picture I wanted them to see was on the screen when I handed the bloody camera over. They had no business hitting the back button. I did feel bad, though, about the ambulance n’that for Justin’s mam. I could tell all day that she’d been struggling with the idea of her only son marrying another bloke. I think the sight of me knocking one out pushed her over the edge.’

My Writing Space

The desk was imported from my previous life as a fey young man in Manchester. The green exercise books visible to the left of the laptop belong to ‘Bottom Set, Year 9’ pupils. Maude has a range of delaying excuses for not marking work and returning it – they should expect her opinion on what they did on their holidays some time approaching Christmas. I used to resent this colonisation of my writing space, but the covers of the books display some pithy and inspiring observations.

Blake Morrison keeps his father’s pacemaker on his writing desk. I have followed suit in my own fashion. The wire you can see Blutacked to the top of the laptop screen has nothing to do with a webcam. It is, in fact, my father’s hearing aid. I speak into it as I write and imagine that he is being entertained. I really thought that he would have asked for it back by now, but I suspect that not being able to hear my mother properly has its advantages.

On the wall above the desk (just out of view) hang two collections of images: ‘Titans’ to the left and ‘Herberts’ to the right.

The ‘Titans’ know the pain I am going through. Their images also exude a certain insouciant style:

Larkin
Morrissey
Niven
Les Dawson

The ‘Herberts’ (under wraps for legal reasons) are stimuli for occasions on which authentic vitriol is required, or when a particularly unpleasant character needs to be drawn in all its vile detail. Dickens used to grimace into a mirror, I unveil the ‘Herberts’. Images of the leading lights from the local arts community dominate. Some have spent time on the punchbag, but now commune with fellow Herberts. Others on display are a little obvious, but ‘Herberts’ with the power to rile nonetheless:

James May
a generic image of a pharmacist in a white coat coming on like a trained doctor
Eric who lives across the road
(that last one is a sketch, as I didn’t want to risk being caught taking his picture).

There is a pile of books just out of view to the right of the laptop which relates to my research on the pit ponies of North East England. I am especially interested in the ponies once used in the undersea mines off Seaham. Aurora saw some of the pictures and donated her own pony to this tableau. The poor blighters of Seaham were taken down as foals and lived an entirely subterranean existence. When the pit closed, they were deemed too fat to come back up and were left down there to die.

I’m sure that my screenplay ‘Revenge of the Zombie Killer Pit Ponies’ will attract serious development funding any day now.

No Notion

I am rarely transfixed during a meeting. It usually takes me all my time to stay alert.

I was once put on report in a sixth form Politics class for falling asleep during a dull monologue by a teacher with wispy, nicotine-coloured hair. I thought the punishment was unfair and suggested that many members of the House of Lords nod off with impunity during debates – that gained nothing but an additional detention. Ever since that formal caution and the ignominy/infamy created by the pool of drool beside my face on the desk, I have been able to find something to focus on to maintain my attention. Usually a detail of someone’s dress is enough or, perhaps, some eye-catching nasal hair. If there is nothing of visual note I occupy my mind with a test of mental agility – usually with a theme from popular culture.

At a meeting recently I managed to simultaneously look interested in what was being said while listing possible words to use in a word replacement game invented by Sandy some years ago during a game of poker. Sandy had trouble maintaining anything approaching a ‘poker face’ and preferred instead to try and distract his opponents. He usually only succeeded in distracting himself. His most memorable distraction attempt featured Smiths songs and the word ‘anus’:

‘This Night has opened my anus’ or

‘This anus has opened my eyes’

‘How soon is anus?’

‘This charming anus’ etc….

I was surprised then the other day to find what was actually being said to be of interest.

Not the content – there wasn’t any.

It was the shameless repetition of a single word that struck me and I even began a five bar gate record of how many times it was used by the same person. The meeting was only an hour long and I counted 6 uses of the same word (a colleague claimed that she clocked 7). 

The favourite word of the person without an idea to speak of was: ‘notion’.  

Ticking my boxes

I love working for an organisation with an identity crisis – it makes me feel relatively secure in myself.

However, the assaults on my identity since I arrived here have been legion. My desk was bare – I had to ask for a phone. When the phone arrived I had to blow the dust from it before I could risk making a call.

Part of the extensive welcome induction I never received covered the need to sign in on arrival. Norman, the Operations Manager, pointed out this need to me 4 weeks after my first arrival. I then found the signing-in book and showed willing. I pointed out that my name wasn’t on the current staff list.

‘Oh, just add yourself by hand at the bottom.’

Last week Norman booked me in for a Health & Safety induction. He had been threatening this for several weeks.

‘How about just after lunch for your Health & Safety induction? Sorry it hasn’t happened sooner….’

‘That’s fine,’ I replied,’I’ll be extra careful until then.’

I watched his lips move and nodded regularly as Norman went through the various perils of working at The National Clay Pipe Centre. Many of them didn’t apply to a non-craftsman like myself – so he breezed through them. I had a quick look at his checklist and noticed that he’d missed a couple of his bullet-points out. One of them read ‘Personal Hygiene’.

‘You’ve missed that one out Norman.’ I reached over to his clipboard and tapped the sheet with my pencil.

‘Oh that one. That’s there because – between you and me – we’ve had a few bad experiences with whiffy volunteers.’

Norman touched his nose when he intimated this.There was an awkward pause and Norman smiled weakly.

‘Well,’ I said,’do keep me right if I let my standards slip.’

Tent of Blue

The National Clay Pipe Centre is an example of post-industrial industrial architecture – in keeping with the site’s former function as a shipyard. The main colour is grey – chosen I think to best show off the splatters of seagull guano.

The ‘workings’ of the centre are exposed: piping, ducts, wiring. All can be seen as you walk through the concrete corridors to reach various large boxy spaces. The experience of travelling the corridors of the centre evokes life on a space station, but with added tedium. The toilets are just above the boiler room. The incessant hum around that sector creates the charming air of an ageing car ferry. This ambience is heightened when the timed cubicle light goes out part way through your efforts.

The building is shaped into the riverside and it is entered, as it were, from the rear. The steel and glass facade looks out onto the majesty of the river Wear and, on a clear day, beyond to the North Sea.

The designers chose to expose all the machinery, but conceal the staff. The main office for the administration of all matters clay pipe is hidden in the core of the building: the windows do not open and the view takes in the loading bay and 2 overflowing skips. Some daylight is filtered through a tent of blue provided by a section of glass roofing. I think the young Dickens probably had a better view from the tanning factory.

Lastly, nearly every door in the building has a keypad with a different alpha-numeric code. I now keep a list in my wallet. There are prisoners at ‘D-cat’ institutions with more freedom than NCPC staff.

Archie lives!

It’s a sign of the times. Poor, desperate men loiter on city street corners. They stand and smoke roll-up cigarettes. They look furtively up and down the street – as though on the lookout for creditors. I was on the fringes of Newcastle’s Chinatown – walking past a cluster of ‘bohemian’ pubs. At the end of the block I could see one of the desperate, slumped beside a pub door and puffing on what was possibly a found cigarette end. I rarely give money to people on the street, but I was moved to pity by this sad figure although the man was not obviously demanding money from passers-by.

As I drew closer, I realised that the figure was portly and bearded. The sandal and shoe ensemble in the middle of winter was a giveaway and I was shaken to my very core to see little Archie in such straitened circumstances.

‘Hiya!’

It would have been impossible to ignore his greeting and heartless to walk on. I hurriedly put away my loose change and shook the little chap’s hand. He extinguished his cigarette on the door jamb of the pub supporting him and put the miniscule remainder into his pocket. I worried about the combustible nature of his crumpled jacket.

‘Is that wise Arch? You could set yourself alight…..’

Archie smiled and beckoned me to look into his sagging pocket. It was filled with sand.

‘I got the idea from one of those old-fashioned fire buckets I saw in the village hall. Leap put some extra stitching in.’

I smiled at Archie’s ‘ingenuity’. He was taking the smoking ban in his tiny stride. I accidentally continued to stare into Archie’s built-in ashtray and created an awkward pause.

'This is, er….awkward.’ Archie’s smile was a little strained and I could see a few strands of tobacco protruding from his teeth.

‘I’m sorry’, I said, ‘Why don’t we go in and have a drink for old time’s sake?’

‘Brilliant. I’m already in a round, mind. I’ve been out since work with Other Archie.’

Archie and Other Archie first met when they were gay bachelors sharing a static caravan on the allotments in Newcastle’s West End. They have maintained a friendship ever since – although Other Archie’s wife, Mona, prefers not to let Archie into her house. The old friends make do with after work drinks.

I asked Archie for his news and he told me that he had acted as a ‘best man’s assistant.’ I told him that I had never heard of such a thing. Apparently Sandy had jetted back into town to perform as best man at Lucien’s wedding. Not one to do things according to convention, Sandy spotted the chance to create a piece of performance art. The format of his speech was based, surprisingly, on the Radio 4 show ‘Just a Minute’. Archie was equipped with a miniature bicycle horn and had to sound it whenever Sandy was guilty of hesitation, deviation or repetition. I was a little surprised that Lucien agreed to this – his life is governed by a slavish adherence to an austere aesthetic which allows only for purely abstract visual art and avant-garde German electronic music.

‘It was really funny...’, said Archie, but his enthusiasm for the story trailed off a little,’...at first’.

I could only imagine that Lucien had trusted Sandy to come up with something appropriate and did not get the time to check beforehand.

Archie continued.

‘Then people seemed to lose interest and I could hear some of them sighing. Oh, and Lucien started to cry.’

Where Are You?

Me: ‘I’m on a felucca on the Nile. They’re having trouble getting the stove working for tea and the captain’s slapping a lot of heads. I’ve been asking if they’ve washed the fruit in clean water but they’re cracking on that they don’t understand. ‘

Maude: ‘Where are you really?’

Me: ‘Lidl’

A man is nothing without regimentals

I could hear the sound of Elgar with a Dimbleby voiceover – it could only be the television coverage of Remembrance Sunday. I came downstairs from some of my chores to find Maude marching Aurora up and down the living room in time to one of the slower movements of ‘Pomp & Circumstance.’

‘I do love Remembrance Sunday! It should be compulsory in schools. Never mind ‘Lest we Forget’, most of them don’t know anything about it in the first place.’ Aurora mimicked Maude as she saluted the Chelsea Pensioners.

‘We really must take Aurora to the Menin Gate when she’s older. Oh, and bring back plenty of cheese and coffee of course….’

Maude enjoys a bit of military pomp. I joined her and Crawford on a pilgrimage to the Edinburgh Tattoo a couple of years ago. All went well until Crawford got over-excited and showed his enthusiasm for the Royal Irish Regiment by discharging his Luger into the air. The police didn’t press charges – Maude successfully argued that her father had exposed their woeful approach to stadium security. I had only previously seen the Luger when I asked for Maude’s hand in marriage. Augusta assures me to this day that Crawford only fired into the fireplace on that occasion to express his delight at the prospect of my joining the family.

‘Men look so splendid in uniform don’t they?’

I guessed that this was rhetorical and left my wife to her reverie.

‘All of them. They all look so…..impressive.’

I smiled across from the Norton Recliner – happy that Maude could derive so much pleasure from such simple things. In my peripheral vision, however, I could see that her attention was breaking away from the television and turning towards me.

I was still in my dressing gown and sandals (I couldn’t find my slippers). My fungal big toenail was, sadly, visible. I knew also that I had not found the time to remove the porridge that Aurora had rubbed into my hair earlier: the little poppet had shown off her dexterity by tugging Daddy’s hair on end with porridge as ‘product’. I looked like Stan Laurel relaxing. Maude’s gaze grew heavier and more discomfiting – I could tell that she was about to speak. I suddenly felt tense and returned the recliner to its upright position.

‘Couldn’t you at least join the TA?’

Where Are You?

Me: ‘Well I’m actually abseiling down the east face of the Palace of Westminster. Got a great view of the London Eye and the police are waving. I met these really nice guys from ‘Fathers for Justice’ in the pub and, well, we got talking and it would have been churlish not to join in after that.’

Maude: ‘Where are you really?’

Me: ‘I’m on the A1, near Washington Services.’

Idle Eric

Our house is not overlooked, it faces a dene with a babbling brook and energetic squirrels. This vista is spoiled, however, when we descend our front steps. To the left of the dene is Eric’s house. Most of the houses in the neighbourhood are rendered and painted white and gardens are colourful and well-tended. Eric’s house is painted grey and he has paved over his garden. We have lived in close proximity to Eric for a full three years and nothing – smiles, offers of ‘good morning!’, even the birth of our child – has ever elicited a word from him.

As I locked the house on Tuesday morning, I noticed that Eric was in his front garden/yard, gripping his picket fence. There was nothing unusual about this – he does take occasional breaks from watching the television to put pizza boxes into his wheelie bin, or watch his wife carry the shopping in from the car.

‘Excuse me!’ I was amazed to hear Eric’s voice for the first time.

‘Morning!’ I took this as neighbourly contact of some sort. Unfortunately Eric then launched into a tirade about thoughtless parking blocking his gate on a regular basis and insisted that he should be treated with a little more respect as the street’s resident of longest standing. I offered an apology and vowed to be more thoughtful in future. This did not placate him and he began to literally jump up and down and wave his arms in rage. I didn’t think he had such energy and his animated form reminded me of an old public information advertisement in which a hopping mad farmer is viewed through binoculars by some litter louts from the city. If I remember rightly they mistake his rage for ‘country dancing’. Eric’s ‘country dancing’ was followed by some incomprehensible mutterings as he stormed out of view and back to his TV.

I drove away through the leafy bends of The Villas, but my morning had been tainted by such unpleasant intercourse. I turned back and gave Eric’s door a firm, but unconfrontational, knock.

He seemed a little taken aback and instinctively raised his fists and assumed a boxing stance. His SKY remote control fell from its holster at his hip and spilled its batteries. The batteries rolled off the step and came to a stop on the paving.

I picked the batteries up and handed them back to their owner.

‘Eric, I really don’t want us to fall out about parking. Let’s talk about it.’

Eric had clearly not shaved for a couple of days and I felt a bit sorry for him. He relaxed a little and seemed happy to have a chat. I was soon apprised of the parking crimes of the last 20 years on the street. I assured him that we were accidental offenders and never intended to cause him any upset. I toyed with the idea of asking him if he remembered the public information film with the hopping mad farmer, but thought better of it.

Yesterday morning I was in the usual hurry to get Aurora to the childminder. I wished Desmond good morning and he said some kind words to the baby. I couldn’t help noticing that the nose of Desmond’s van was just encroaching on Eric’s drive. I presumed that Eric was not at large and that a resident of Desmond’s long standing might be able to impose a little.

I installed the baby in her car seat and got into the driver’s seat. As I did so I heard the rumble of a wheelie bin – this was strange as our rubbish is collected on a Tuesday. The noise was coming from Eric’s drive and I adjusted my rear view mirror to see the poor man flying down the slope towards Desmond’s van. Eric had smeared his face with dirt and was wearing a bandana – he was pushing the wheelie bin as a makeshift battering ram.

Desmond is a little deaf and didn’t notice a thing.

Desmond waved a little wave at Aurora as he pulled out into the road and made off for another day of cheerfully fitting carpets. Eric’s momentum took him across the road and into Desmond’s garden wall. He didn’t appear to lose consciousness. I thought it best not to draw attention to such indignity. Aurora and I set off with our usual sing-song start to the day:

‘The wheels on the bus go round and round…..!’

'Ring of Fire'

We had a barbecue on Saturday. Friends and babies milled around the kitchen. The babies took to the floor for a crawling competition and created the added bonus of an assault course for adults moving to and from the barbecue on the terrace with plates full of piping hot food. The barbecue was sat on bricks from an aborted bricklaying project of last year. (I had read a Sunday supplement piece about the joys of raised beds for growing your own vegetables. Deluded by the memory of a day’s bricklaying on a conservation holiday twenty years ago, I’d ruined the Mazda’s shock absorbers with a load of cheap bricks.)

Between the barbecue assembly and the fence was a shelf of small gardening equipment. I had looked at it earlier in the day and dismissed it as innocuous: terracotta pots; twine; unplanted seeds in sachets; a highly combustible plastic propagator.

The whole neighbourhood seemed to be enjoying the sunny day. I could hear Desmond and Celia giggling on the other side of the fence and the sound of splashing water suggested a water fight. We have often admired the youthfulness of Desmond and Celia. Whenever Celia does get out of her rocking chair they get along like teenagers.

Maude was enjoying the company and waving away the praise for her marinade.
Chad had, once again, 'forgotten' to bring any wine. Maude had set him to work on chores as a penance. I looked in to see him shelling peas. I was surprised by this, as peas were not on the menu. When Maude looked in his direction he laughed his theatrical laugh or beamed a smile back at her. As soon as she looked away his bottom lip obscured the peas he was trying to shell.

The propagator explosion was much louder than one could have imagined – even if one had been aware of the hazard. Maude screamed and jumped into the air with such force that her glasses were skew-whiff when she landed. Aurora followed suit and set off a chorus of screaming babies. Not wanting to be left out, Chad fired a shower of peas across the kitchen as he screamed too.

It was then that I realised that the explosion had blown an almost perfectly circular hole in the fence and had sent burning debris flying onto our neighbours’ property – more accurately, onto our neighbours. Celia was screaming. I looked through the burning aperture to see Celia stood naked in a newly acquired hot-tub. Desmond had the look of a man desperately bailing out as he scooped water onto her rear and burning splinters sizzled on the water’s surface around her.

It didn’t seem like a good time to offer an apology.

I extinguished the fence with the watering can and closed the French windows behind me as I went back into the house. The room fell silent as I calmed Aurora in my best Max Wall voice:

‘It’s alright dear, Daddy’s put the fire out.’

Making an Impression

Last week I was back at the theatre where I used to work. I’d arranged a meeting there – thinking that I would get preferential service as a former employee. The Duty Manager welcomed me with a big smile and I felt the warm glow of a kind of homecoming. It was only when he said ‘It took a minute for me to recognise you without your fedora’ that I suspected a case of mistaken identity. I have never worn a hat in my life.

I let this pass and enjoyed the fact that the man’s voice was almost identical to that of the late great Max Wall. When Maude was carrying Aurora she would often ask me to speak to the baby:

‘All the books say that the father should talk to the baby in the womb. That way you’ve partially bonded even before birth. They come out knowing their father’s voice.’

I felt self-conscious about speaking to an unborn baby and decided to do my Max Wall voice.

‘Hello, are you in there? It’s your father here….’

As usual, Maude was amused at first and then annoyed.

I argued that the deep resonance of the ‘Max Wall’ voice probably made for very comforting vibration by the time it reached the baby. Maude changed her position on the sofa at that point – placing the bump out of the reach of ‘Max’.

Larry has left the building

Maude and I went on a date last night – to a 'gig' in Newcastle.

We hadn’t seen Larry since Maude’s birthday back in December and just presumed that he had hibernated for the winter.

‘Perhaps he’s having an extra long sleep this year. Perhaps he’ll burst out into the world with more energy than ever and, well, a direction.’

Maude is always admirable in her optimistic take on her friends’ capabilities and motivations.

There was the usual long gap between the moment when the support act finally succumbed to boos and groans and left the stage and the moment when the main act deigned to appear. It was during this window that the familiar figure of Larry came into view through the chattering crowds around the entrance to the hall. Maude had inadvertently spilled her drink on a huddle of sixth formers to create some space for us at a rail on the mezzanine. We could see the stage and the door from one vantage point.

Larry has a distinctive gait – part shuffle, part swagger. He rarely looks where he is going – preferring instead to scan the room for familiar faces and pretty girls. On this occasion, though, he seemed fixed on a point in the distance and his movement was more shuffle than swagger.

Maude waved. Larry, however, didn’t respond or deviate – instead he maintained a steady pace in his shuffle into the room.

‘The idle swine is ignoring me.’

I tried to reassure Maude that Larry didn’t seem to be himself. Maude rapidly called Miles, a mutual friend.

‘I just saw Larry in a public place and he ignored me! Have you spoken to him lately?’

I detected something slightly odd about Larry. As he drew closer I could see profound irregularity in his outfit. Larry habitually wears black – he expends less energy on choosing outfits that way. Tonight, he was a riot of stripes.

Maude nudged me. ‘Miles wants to know what he’s wearing…’

Larry emerged through a wave of dry ice and came into clearer focus.

Maude passed the phone to me:

’The last time I was fixing Larry’s Teasmaid', Miles said, ‘he told me about the ‘pyjama caper’. Whenever he needs to get into a club, a gig - or anywhere really - without paying and he can’t get Dink or Helmut to pay, he puts on pyjamas and ‘sleepwalks’ in. Glazed eyes, pyjamas. While the bouncers are laughing and pointing he's in past them and runs into the crowd.’

‘Yoo-hoo!’ Maude was unfazed by the cool attitudes of those around her and thought it best to adopt her grandmother’s way of attracting the attention of a passer-by.

Maude’s cry roused Larry from his ‘sleepwalk’ and queered the timing of his routine. The house lights dimmed. As the crowd began to show its appreciation for the imminent arrival of the main act, Larry’s muffled whimpers could just be heard under the weight of a heavy man who had proved himself to be deceptively light on his feet. The conqueror rose to his feet and a broad back showed the legend ‘STEWARD’. Larry was leaving the building - with his head held high, and his feet held higher.

A bit of a cheek...

I have a mystery ailment. Every once in a while I will get up, look in the bathroom mirror, and see that my right cheek has swollen to make me look battered – or slightly more battered than usual.

‘Perhaps it’s stress related.’ Maude does her best to be sympathetic. I pointed out that if stress were at the root of it, then it would be a permanent fixture.

‘Oh, is it not?’ Maude doesn’t actually look at me much these days.

The doctor was sympathetic, typed a great deal and looked perplexed, but didn’t actually have an inkling as to what the problem was.

‘Perhaps you should try the dentist – it is near your teeth.’

Heartened by such thorough attention to my ballooning face, I made my exit through the guard of honour of coughing pensioners in the surgery waiting room. The dentist referred me on to the Dental Hospital in the centre of town. in the waiting room some had similar swellings to my own and some had teeth so protrusive it was hard not to look at them. It was also hard to imagine what on earth an x-ray could reveal that wasn’t on show to the world.

My turn came and I realised that I was being shown into a room full of students, who were about to observe my x-ray experience. Apparently I had signed a form which included my consent to this. They all looked very young and slightly bogus in their white coat & trainer ensembles.

The qualified radiologist smiled at me and nodded towards her acolytes.

‘We’ve got company this morning.’

The radiologist trainer was one of the smallest women I have ever met. The x-ray machine was vertical and designed to work as the patient stood.

The tiny woman turned to her students:

‘Hey, we’ve got a big one here! How’s little me going to manage?’

The radiology expert then rummaged in a low level cupboard and produced a footstool.

‘Be ready for every eventually when x-raying.’

It struck me that a resourceful boy scout could perform x-rays if this is the level of expertise required.

I tried to smile as the little woman teetered on her footstool and raised the height of the machine to its limit. I stepped forward and the top of my head still hit the frame, just.

‘I could stoop ever so slightly’, I offered.

‘No, I’m sorry sir. Stooping would affect your posture and impair the x-ray.' She then turned to the students to reiterate this last point: 'Stooping, not good'.

The room fell quiet for a moment as the students made zero useful suggestions and the little woman’s brain whirred as her resourcefulness was tested once more. I then saw her expression brighten as an idea struck her. She lowered the apparatus to the level of my groin. I was perplexed by this and thought I caught a titter from one of the male students.

‘One sec!’ The radiologist darted from the room with some purpose.

I stepped away from the x-ray machine and briefly put my hands in my pockets to try and look relaxed and unembarrassed. I thought better of this and took my hands out – only to send a pound coin skidding across the buffed floor. One of the students trapped it under his trainer and offered it back to me in silence. I thanked him and he nodded slightly. I guessed that the ‘communication with patients’ module was later in their course.

It was then that the silence was challenged by a regular squeak in the corridor. The squeak drew closer. The double doors then flew open and the tiny radiologist entered the room with an expression of triumph and a battered wheelchair.

Send Only

If I go straight from work to the house I find that I have been handed the baby before I have even had the chance to remove my coat. I took my seat for dinner on Wednesday after the baby was asleep, for instance, without realising I was still wearing my coat and hat. Maude giggled until pudding.

‘Me time’ then is very hard to come by and, when it occurs, I savour it. I sat in a layby yesterday doing a crossword. Passers-by must have wondered why I smiled so broadly from such a simple pastime – not knowing that it was the joy of being off- radar that gave me such a rush. I then set to work on a task I had been meaning to get around to for some time – my text message templates. I tire of texting the same things over and over again – so templates seem the way to go.

I began with a few templates for Original Susan:

‘Probably working from home today, trouble with the old boiler – plumber called.’

‘Running late – childcare issues. Hope you don’t mind holding the fort.’

I then began work on the template messages for Maude.

The practical:

‘Traffic v.heavy. Feel free to hand over baby in hall on my arrival.’

The contrite:

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I’m so very sorry – forgive me.’

‘I am more sorry than I have ever been – please let me back into the house before the frost sets in.’

A Woman's Touch

Maude and I called to see Benny this afternoon. Benny was keen to show Maude the progress he has made in his DIY efforts. His living room has improved tenfold – with shelving, a rug – even a new pouffe with internal storage.

Maude flattered Benny on his achievements, but I could tell that she was unsure about some of Benny’s general approach to décor.

‘You’ve done remarkably well Benny….in the circumstances. I do think the place could do with a few small touches though. For instance, what about the fire?’

Benny has a new fireplace. A local carpenter made the surround and a new hearth was fitted at great expense. Benny, however, has shied away from setting a fire since his elderly neighbour, Florence, expressed her fears for the safety of his property and of hers. In fact, when she spied Benny with a box of matches at hand she called the Fire Service.

Maude suggested that Benny made a pot of tea. As he left the room Maude caught his heel as she closed the door behind him and held it shut with the pouffe.

I could hear Benny’s voice in the hall – it had the quality of a cry from someone trapped down a well.

‘What are you doing Maude? It is my house you know.’

‘Don’t worry Benny – you’ll thank me.’

Maude likes to hang pictures and keeps a small stock of tacks in her purse. Benny had received a couple of small landscape prints from a well-meaning sister at Christmas. He had been using them as tea trays, so Maude took the opportunity to make them focal points on either side of the dormant fireplace. Using a heel as an improvised hammer, she made light work of the job.

I then helped Maude as she repositioned most of the furniture. Benny could hear the movement from the hall.

‘Tea’s ready. Can I come back in now?’

‘Not just yet dear.’ Maude pressed on and found a new spot for more or less everything in the room. The movement of the furniture revealed lost socks and mislaid Y-fronts. Maude looked away. I felt obliged to protect Benny’s dignity and swiftly found a temporary home for the smalls in the new pouffe.

I was then sent out into the hall to prepare Benny for the ‘reveal’. My friend was sat on the bottom step of his own staircase like a banished naughty child. I reassured him that there was nothing to worry about and he agreed to wear my cravat as a blindfold as I led him back into his living room.

‘Ta-da!’ cried Maude as I uncovered Benny’s eyes.

Benny was a little disoriented and remained silent for a minute as he surveyed the changed environment. His expression was inscrutable, until his face gradually warmed into a smile.

‘It’s wonderful Maude. I needed a woman’s touch.’

‘Quite,’ said Maude.’I also thought that it was time for you to ‘put away childish things’ – so I got your fire going with that balsa wood Messerschmitt from the shelf. It really didn’t go with those books anyway.’

Benny looked a little stunned. We heard the model crackle in the grate and I could see the flames reflected in Benny’s glasses.

‘You just need to keep it tidy dear – we found lots of newspapers and ‘bits and bobs’. If the place gets untidy, you don’t necessarily need a woman’s touch, you could just dump your mess in the pouffe.’

'That was a man thing!'

My best man, Miles, called unexpectedly last night.

‘Could you email a few of your wedding pictures to me?’ he asked. ‘Only I was telling Delilah [his new girlfriend] about your wedding and how Maude gave me a really hard time about my haircut. I just wanted to prove that it wasn’t that bad.’

I said I’d be happy to scan a few images as soon as I got the time.

‘She did give me a hard time you know.’

I was surprised that a grown man was still smarting from a throwaway reprimand of years ago from Maude – the kind of remark I weather on a daily basis, strapped to the mast of matrimony.

‘I think that she was actually more critical of the fact that you hadn’t shaved. Oh, and of the option that you presented to me as we entered the church.’

‘But I offer that to all the grooms I serve and, anyway, you shouldn’t have told her – that was a man thing.’

Miles has been a Best Man on several occasions and stood out as the most capable candidate when Maude and I were planning our wedding. He has a certain charisma and the ability to work a room without showing signs of his massive recreational drug consumption. I did consider Archie, but suspected that the little chap would be mistaken for a pageboy. Larry too was ruled out – his narcolepsy is quite unpredictable.

Miles has a checklist of what he believes to be his duties as a Best Man. He composed the list on a beer mat some years ago and carries it in his wallet. I recall our approach to the church gates on that fateful day. Miles turned to me and raised his hand in a ‘STOP’ signal.

‘Woooah, bonny lad!’

I stopped and said nothing. I thought perhaps he was about to issue some last minute words of advice, or to wish me many years of happily married life. Instead, he reached into his back pocket and produced his wallet. As he opened it I shielded my eyes from a possible outpouring of trapped moths. When I looked again Miles was really concentrating (I could see his nostrils flaring). He was consulting his checklist. He took a small pencil from behind his ear and carefully ticked off the items he had achieved. Miles’ handwriting has always reminded me of ransom notes – I couldn’t read any of the bullet points apart from the very last one on the list. His pencil hovered, as he opened his mouth to speak – it read:

‘GIVE GROOM LAST CHANCE TO RUN AWAY’

'Good carrots ruined!'

Maude’s father, Crawford, has a very fixed idea of Christmas. The details of his Christmas should not be tampered with – as any deviation from his template has the potential to spoil his entire experience.

It was Christmas a decade ago when Maude’s sister, Lucia, last ‘tampered’ with Christmas. Lucia is a gifted chef and took responsibility for the Christmas lunch dessert – deciding that a departure from the traditional steamed pudding was long overdue. It was to be a surprise for Crawford and a surprise it certainly was. The lights were dimmed and Lucia brought the chestnut mousse into the dining room with some ceremony and not a little pride in her efforts. The rest of the company smiled its approval and a gentle ripple of applause greeted Lucia as she processed to the centre of the table. Crawford was conspicuously quiet until he was served. His assessment of Lucia’s efforts was a little harsh and was issued at the top of his voice:

‘That’s a piss poor excuse for a pudding if ever I saw one!’

Lucia burst into tears, Augusta cast a withering look at her husband and left the room. I turned to gauge the reaction of Maude’s twin brother, Roddy, only to hear the sound of his ignition in the yard. Maude put an arm around Lucia’s shoulder and led her, sobbing, from the room. Maude paused briefly at the door until she was sure that the scene was imprinted on her father’s memory and then comforted her sister back to the quiet sanctuary of the music room.

That memory had seemingly receded this year. Augusta had allotted Christmas Day tasks by handwritten memo. I was asked to look after the baby and make sure that the log fire didn’t fade, while Maude took responsibility for the preparation of the vegetables. As I was carrying Aurora from the kitchen, I noticed Maude ransacking her mother’s larder after some culinary inspiration.

‘Brilliant! Fresh ginger for the carrots.’

I had a sudden flashback to the mousse incident and tried to attract Maude’s attention while she was ushering me out the kitchen.

‘But darling, don’t’ forget about (at this point Maude closed the door soundly behind me) ….the mousse.’

Christmas lunch was not very old when Crawford and I found ourselves alone at the table – as we had ten years earlier.

‘What did I say?’ Crawford straightened his paper party hat and pushed his carrots to the edge of his plate. As he tucked into the remainder of his turkey he looked across at my turkey leg.

‘Do you not want that? There’s a wild load of meat left on it.’

Esme, where's your troosers?

We celebrated Maude’s birthday last night. Most of the usual crowd was there. Esme was the first to arrive.

‘You’ve forgotten your trousers’ Maude observed. I looked down and realised that Esme was bravely wearing a ‘shirt-dress’. Maude was easily distracted as Esme proffered a beautifully wrapped birthday gift. The women communicated for a few minutes in a language made up entirely of giggles and high pitched squeals as they admired elements of each other’s outfit and agonised over which cocktail to begin the evening with.

Pierre and Heidi turned up next. Pierre slid into our booth with his usual ease, kissed Maude and straightened his new glasses. I don’t think that he was trying to draw attention to them, but he did anyway.

‘I love your new specs, Pierre.’

Pierre beamed, removed the eyewear and began to explain how he acquired them.

‘Well I was in this thrift shop back in Montreal. I actually went in for some toothpicks, but my Dad was challenged by security for making an inappropriate comment to one of the cashiers. So, anyway, I had some time to kill and started trying on these old glasses and, would you believe I found my exact prescription in these and they were only….99 cents!’

Pierre replaced the glasses and looked at everyone around the table – to illustrate that they did indeed hold lenses with his exact prescription.

‘That’s amazing!’ exclaimed Maude. ‘They do make you look like a lesbian though.’

After several hours of chat and of cocktails taken, Larry appeared.

‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’ joked Maude. ’You look really familiar.’

Larry hadn’t visited to see the baby.

‘Helmut cycled over,' noted the new mother.

‘Well, he was in the area anyway,’ retorted Larry. ’You’ve seen one baby, you’ve seen them all.’

‘Well you haven’t seen ours – so how would you know?’

Larry then spent the usual hour or so defending his neglectful ways and louche lifestyle with remarks along the lines of:

‘Well it’s just the way I am’
‘I’m still your friend.’
‘I’ve been really busy out partying and meeting new people.’
‘The ukulele tuition is really taking off and I’m teaching Alan Shearer some tunes to liven up his after-dinner speaking.’

Maude suggested that Larry performed some minor 'tweaks' on his life:

‘Get a proper job’
‘Learn to drive’
‘Marry Dink and have children.’
‘Buy a house’

Larry was touched by Maude’s concern and the amount of thought she had put into her advice. He then muttered something and left the table. I realised a few minutes later – when he retook his place with glass in hand - that the mutter was an offer to buy a round of drinks.

Esme then squeezed into a space between Larry and I which was far too small for her.

‘Room for a small one?’ she asked. She turned to speak to me with a buttock firmly on Larry’s knee. She smiled at me and then opened her mouth to speak.

‘Oh, I’ve completely forgotten what I was going to say to you.’ It was then Esme ‘realised’ that she was sat on Larry.

‘Oh. look who I’m sat on! What a coincidence.’

Wait a minute Mr Postman!

So, rogue postmen do exist. We received an abused item of post in a polythene evidence bag from the Royal Mail – complete with a letter of profound corporate apology. The letter had been filleted by our postman (we think it had contained a voucher) and was the first item to be returned as part of ‘an ongoing investigation’. The case is in court, so we will have to wait for more information on what else the thieving swine took. He had been our postman for several years. Maude thought him very agreeable – as he remembered us from our last address a few miles away and would ask how she was. He would thoughtfully come into the porch (we rarely lock our doors in The Villas) if a parcel was too large for the postbox. Not for him, the leaving of a card causing the inconvenience of a trip to the sorting office. He was more interested in the massive inconvenience resulting from the theft of valuable post.

Since Aurora's birth we have excised several friends who failed to acknowledge the event with an appropriate gift. Now it seems we might have been hasty. Postie has probably had a bumper couple of weeks at the car boot sale – or on Ebay – with much profit made from cuddly toys and baby blankets.

I have begun to wonder what else he might have purloined in his 5 years as our postman. Maybe there was a letter (and cheque) from Archie & Leap – acknowledging their deficiencies and their indebtedness. Perhaps that literary agent did write back on receipt of my novel – with a record advance and an apology for not recognising my greatness earlier.

Des, Burt and me.

The registration of a birth is an old-fashioned process. An appointment is required and a lengthy series of questions are posed by a person who takes the role of registrar very seriously. A sign on the wall warns that the giving of any false information in the circumstances is PERJURY. I was quite reassured by this formality and looked forward to getting a piece of parchment confirming Aurora’s place in the world.

I was a few minutes early for the appointment and the reception office had not actually opened for business. I could see figures moving around behind the frosted window. Women were wishing each other 'good morning' and already discussing what they had brought in for lunch. I could hear a fridge door being opened and closed as the exciting lunch items were stowed away for the morning.

The office opened at 9.30am. I took a seat and waited for the wall clock to tick loudly around to opening time. When it did, I excitedly got up. I was to meet the registrar and our daughter was about to become a citizen of the borough. I approached the counter as a middle-aged woman slid back the window. The hatch looked like one of those serving windows from the 1970’s and the woman who revealed herself had heyday makeup that complemented the look. Sky-blue eyeshadow beamed out from behind large bi-focals. She adjusted her glasses slightly and focussed on me.

‘I have an appointment with the registrar.’ I was formal, but enthusiastic.

I expected her response to be something like: ‘What’s the name please?’, or ‘Oh, yes, please take a seat sir’. When her glasses were at the right angle to survey me through her bi-focals, she said:

‘Is it to register a death?’

I was disappointed by this.

‘No,’ I said weakly, ‘a birth’.

‘Oh’ she said barely containing her surprise. She turned to her colleague and raised her eyebrows before turning an insincere smile on me.

‘You’d better take a seat then.‘

She slid the window back into place and I watched her retreat to her desk through the frosted pane.

The waiting room was empty save for me, but I still waited a full 20 minutes. I presumed that the registrar was refilling her fountain pens, or just making me wait to emphasise her importance and the gravity of the registration process. While I waited I felt increasingly insecure as an older father - I obviously looked more like a morose widower than a new dad. This gloom wasn’t lifted by the conversation I could overhear from behind the frosted glass.

‘Des O’Connor - well into his seventies. He’ll probably be dead by the time that kid goes to big school.'

There was a long pause here - during which a ringing phone was steadfastly ignored.

‘Aye. Burt Bacharach, he’s another one. I saw him in the paper. He’s ancient – he’ll be lucky if he sees that kid get to nursery'.

All Donations Gratefully Accepted

Our neighbourhood has many elderly residents. The area even has one of those ‘Elderly People Crossing’ road signs. I was unnerved by this at first – thinking that I had ended up in a dormitory suburb ‘as it were, for life.’

With old people though, come old customs and manners. This is no bad thing - especially when one of the customs involves the giving of money.

The other day Maude and I took our first promenade with the new baby – Aurora. It was a sunny day so we did a circuit around the leafy, blooming lanes of ‘The Villas’. Maude’s mother, Augusta, walked 30 yards ahead and used her natural authority to divert any traffic or dog walkers from our path.

An elderly lady was busy dead-heading roses in her garden as we passed.

‘Oh, a new baby!’ She exclaimed and leaned precariously over her garden gate to catch a glimpse of the infant.

Maude proudly pushed back the awning on the pram to reveal Aurora’s sleepy face.

‘Oh, she’s absolutely gorgeous,’ continued the old lady. ’So good to see some new blood in The Villas – the next generation, as it were. Wait there.’ She then disappeared into her kitchen. Maude was slightly perturbed. Reappearing moments later, the lady rummaged in her purse.

I realised what was happening and whispered some reassurance.

‘It’s an old custom darling – some older people will give the baby a small amount of money for good luck.’

The old lady reached across under Maude’s watchful eye and pressed a shiny pound coin into Aurora’s tiny hand.

‘Good luck!’ She smiled and returned to her gardening chores. Maude thanked her and we moved on.

I had not seen the giving of money to strangers’ children for many years, but I was heartened to see the warm glow in the old lady’s cheeks as she made the gesture.

I have since resolved to brighten the days of as many of our senior neighbours as possible: early morning walks around the full extent of The Villas (including culs-de-sac) have been highly profitable. Hovering around the trolley return station at Tesco has also paid dividends – the elderly shopper is very likely to be easily distracted after retrieving their pound coin and before you know it another coin has dropped into Aurora’s university fund and the cockles of another old heart have been warmed.

A well-timed saunter past the post office as it opened brought in a remarkable pram haul of £7.59, some Werther's Originals and an Out-Patient appointment card.

The wind that shakes the barley water

Someone told me that our local supermarket had a goodwill policy of offering new mothers a free shop if their waters happened to break on the premises. Maude is 3 days away from what has been described as her ‘outside due date’ – whatever that means. She is profoundly bored at home, so yesterday she took me up on the offer of a trip to the supermarket. I used the subterfuge of stocking up on a few of those last minute essentials for the hospital trip – snack bars and magazines, for me.

I thought it best to hover in aisles with supermarket staff in them. That way, the breaking waters would be witnessed and there could be no question of our qualification for the complimentary trolley dash.

‘Why have you taken over 10 minutes to choose flapjacks? You always eat those weird seeded ones there. You are a creature of habit. Just get them and we’ll go.’ Maude didn't seem to be enjoying the expedition.

I suggested that we move on to the alcohol aisles (remembering that those areas are always patrolled by vigilant staff).

‘This could be our last chance to get something to wet the baby’s head darling.’

Maude viewed me with mild suspicion – nothing new – and began to move, slowly. I helped her along from behind – massaging her back in line with the pregnancy help-books I had been reading. Maude had marked the most germane sections for me and left the books piled on my desk – together with a multiple choice test paper for me to fill in at my leisure (it’s so stimulating being married to a teacher).

‘If you don’t stop that I’ll use the last bit of strength in my body to send you flying into those shelves. Those shelves, there, with all the tins.’

I gathered that this wasn’t quite the right time to employ my new massage expertise. Maude joined me in the wine aisle a few minutes later. I’d taken the brief opportunity to gather a bewildering array of champagne, in the hope that we could linger over the choice and improve our chances.

‘That one will do.’ Maude grabbed the bottle with the prettiest label and began to shuffle towards the checkouts. As we were passing the soft drinks and cordials I was beginning to believe that the mission was doomed. Maude reached for her favourite flavour of barley water, but she suddenly stopped short and held the shelf for support. I was heartened and felt sure that we had a result. I raised my voice:

‘Darling, are you ok? Is it…..is it time? Oh god, imagine going into labour at the supermarket of all places, who’d believe it?’

A security guard looked slightly intrigued and approached from the end of the aisle. Maude remained silent until he was within five feet of her.

‘I wouldn’t come any closer,’ she suggested and I now felt pretty confident that we would soon be filling a family trolley with every product I could find from the ‘Finest’ range.

‘Just checking that everything is ok, madam. Would you like me to find a seat for you?’

A long, pregnant, silence ensued and time seemed to stand still as we waited for a response.

As the Tannoy system announced ‘a large range of bakery products at very reduced prices in aisle 7’, Maude broke wind with a volume I have never before witnessed and wouldn't care to experience again.

‘Oh,' she sighed, 'that’s much better.’ She then placed the champagne in my basket and made her way briskly to the car park.

Look out kid.....

Every time I leave the house at the moment, Maude reminds me to drive carefully. Whenever I leave the house for work, she states ‘I hope you’re still driving carefully.’ I tell her that, of course I am driving with absolute care.

‘I rarely get to ton-up any more dear’, I said yesterday morning when this ritual took place. ‘I have stopped overtaking on bends while sending text messages – all in the past, that kind of thing. I have even started wearing my seatbelt.’

Maude usually adopts her stern 'teacher face' at this point – the one she uses when trying to outstare a spirited teenager at school.

‘You know what I mean. You wouldn’t want to leave me a widow and this poor child (points at bump) an orphan.’

I usually do my mock-chided face at this point and she lightens up, safe in the knowledge that she has put the notion of safe driving at the top of my limited mental agenda. She does, however, have detailed knowledge of my driving habits.

‘What about the flash cards?’

Last year I watched a Bob Dylan documentary and was quite inspired by the film clip for ‘Subterrannean Homesick Blues’. Like most Dylan songs, it is a bit top-heavy with lyrics, but he whips through them briskly and helps his audience with an armful of placards. He drops or flings aside each card when the line is complete. I spent several hours in the garage composing a similar set of message boards – all with a motoring application. Maude flouts the highway code by frequently using her horn 'as a rebuke' (accompanied by some regrettable gestures). My card system is designed, instead, to encourage fellow drivers to reconsider their driving style.

I travel along the A1 a great deal (apart from the occasions on which I am forced to go cross-country. The A1 often grinds to a standstill at peak times and I am forced to pull myself off to avoid an unhealthy build up of frustration). I find that I often end up sat parallel to a motorist who has recently cut me up, changed lane without indication, or has a mobile phone clamped to his or her ear. At such times I have my handy stock of clearly stencilled flash cards. The most useful cards read as follows:

(for handheld mobile phone users) : QUIT YOUR JIBBER JABBER!
(for non-indicators) : GIVE US A CLUE!
(for boy racers) : GROW UP!
(for emergencies) : YOU'LL NEVER TAKE ME ALIVE COPPER!

‘Very rarely used, dear', I reassured Maude, 'and never in anything above second gear.’

Maude put on her coat and kissed me on the cheek, seemingly happy with this renewed attention to safety. She stalled halfway through the front door.

‘I haven’t forgotten about your replica gun.’

Last Night I Dreamt....

Maude and I share everything – hopes, fears, dreams. She asked me why I hadn’t slept very well on Sunday night and was even more tired than usual for the start of the working week. I explained that I had been distressed by a bad dream. ‘What?’ she asked 'a proper nightmare?’.

‘Worse than that,’ I answered.

I explained that my dream had featured my finally striking up a friendship with Morrissey. (I once declined an invitation to a party in Manchester – unaware that The Smiths were there. This has obviously stayed with me). I went on to describe how Morrissey had brewed his best tea for me. He had poured it from a teapot swaddled in a tea cosy bearing the combative image of Pat Phoenix and then served it in China cups. The cups chimed beautifully when replaced in their saucers. We had lovely muffins, freshly toasted on Morrissey's open fire – all the while talking about our favourite books, the highlights of ‘kitchen sink’ cinema and trying to quantify just how much Manchester had to answer for. The phone kept ringing and he fielded calls from Nancy Sinatra and Alan Bennett – explaining that he had a far more important new friend and it was highly unlikely that he would need their company any more. It was then that the dream took a dark turn. Morrissey had just asked for my help.

‘Please please PLEASE! have a look at the songs for my new album – I’m really not too sure about them.’

Morrissey then crossed the room and rifled through a leather satchel. He produced a large scrapbook with the legend ‘My New Songs’ stencilled on the cover. He fumbled a little, put on his reading glasses and made to return to me at the hearth. My second muffin was very nearly done to perfection. Morrissey’s face now wore an expression of profound relief. He had obviously been carrying a great deal of worry about the quality of the new songs and saw in me a kindred spirit - someone who would add the necessary polish to get the songs to recordable quality.

Morrissey’s body was then struck by a terrible spasm. His hands dishevelled his cardigan and clutched at his chest. He then fell, dead, on the deep-pile carpet.

Of course I awoke at this point.

Maude looked unmoved by the events of my dream.

‘I tend to dream about family and friends,’ observed Maude. ‘You know, the people who matter to me…..you.’

‘I dream about you as well, dear.’

Maude looked unconvinced and continued.

‘I dream about the person I’m going to spend the rest of my life with.’

I pointed out that I was still upset and she really should keep her threats to herself.

Mother Knows Best

Maude and I attended our first ‘Parentcraft’ class last night. Maude was quite looking forward to it – she had done a great deal of research and wanted to participate fully.

The midwife introduced herself and was impressively warm and welcoming.

‘That’s Carol,’ whispered Maude. ’She’s our midwife.’

I smiled and Carol suggested that all the couples introduced themselves to the group – since we would be sharing the sessions for several weeks.

The introductions began. Couples squeezed each other’s hands, exchanged smiles, gave their names, detailed how pregnant they were and where they lived. Carol thanked each couple in turn and made everyone feel at their ease – especially the men who shuffled in their seats and fidgeted with the change in their pockets. Our turn arrived and Carol glanced over. I drew breath and shifted slightly in my seat. Before I could say anything Maude took over:

‘Hello Everyone! I’m Maude! I am 36 weeks pregnant and I will be having my baby at the Queen Elizabeth.’

There was a finality at the end of this statement, so Carol smiled again and moved to the next couple. I tapped Maude’s arm gently.

‘Well, they don’t really need to know who you are, do they?’

Maude ‘whispered’ this, so it was audible to the entire room. A diminutive father beside me sniggered. I looked closely at him. He was wearing a waistcoat which made him look like a snooker player and his sideburns were shaped to emphasise his individuality. I began to think that I didn’t really want to surrender my anonymity to this group anyway.

Carol took the group through the 3 stages of pregnancy. Maude answered when Carol asked if anyone knew the names of those stages. Maude also chipped in with various technical terms and suggested at one point that one of Carol’s diagrams was, in fact, the wrong way up.

Carol persevered, but began to offer her questions exclusively to the other side of the room. Maude was undaunted and fired her answers at the back of Carol’s head – repeating them until she turned around and was forced to acknowledge that Maude was right.

‘Maude's being doing her research, hasn't she?’ Carol forced a smile.’If I’m feeling under the weather next week, I'm sure she can take yous all through the rest of the course.’

I swiftly fell off my chair to distract Maude, before she worsened the situation by correcting Carol’s grammar.

In case of picnics

I was in the bank the other day in Seaburn. An elderly man was at the counter in front of me. He was busy rifling through the pockets of his raincoat. I gathered that he was looking for the origin of his errand: a chequebook perhaps, or some cash bound in an elastic band. He then began to produce all manner of items unrelated in any way to banking. It felt as though I was witnessing a performance by the oldest and worst magician in the world.

Firstly, there came a long piece of string. It struck me that old men do indeed revert to being little boys. What possible use could there be for a piece of string in an old man’s coat pocket on a trip to the shops? Unless he was working as the best disguised assassin since The Jackal and the string was actually a garrotte. A running commentary was inevitable.

‘Oh, sorry Pet. It’s in here somewhere….the doings.’

The next item to appear in the slow motion sleight of hand was a handful of paper. I could see crumpled shopping lists, written in an elderly hand. They were in exasperated capitals and I guessed that this man wasn’t the most efficient messenger in the neighbourhood. He turned and was slightly startled by the steadily growing queue behind him.

‘ Oh, I do apologise. Must find this thing to pay in. I know you’re all busy people...... I do beg your pardon.’

I felt uncharacteristically charitable from this point on. The lone counter person smiled an unconcerned smile. She looked well used to working to the clock of the elderly in the area – all of whom seemed to have retired from everything, including Greenwich Mean Time. I was in no hurry to get back to the office – I never am. The ‘show and tell’ continued and the old man began investigating the deep raincoat pocket on his left side. I heard the rustle of cellophane and then, ‘before my very eyes’, the man was showing the room a small, wrapped set of plastic cutlery.

‘They are a good idea, you know. I carry them in case of picnics.’

You can't hide your famine eyes

Maude is now in the habit of mentioning my physical attributes in the context of our forthcoming child.

‘I hope the baby doesn’t get your big nose,’ for instance.

I know that this is well-meant and I try to not let it trouble me.

‘Yes dear, I hope not too.’

Lately though I do tend to leave the living room and busy myself in the kitchen during the TV commercial breaks. If I forget myself and linger, Maude’s gaze wanders and I can feel her looking me up and down. It makes me feel like an old nag at a horse fair, at the very end of the day’s business.

‘I do hope that the baby isn’t preternaturally tall either….like you. Somewhere in between my normal height and your excessive height would be ideal. I do hope that my genes win out.’

Another trait of my family which has often fascinated Maude is our weary-looking eyes. She dropped many hints when we first dated that perhaps I needed to have my eyes tested - that perhaps I ought to wear glasses. She then met the family, realised we all had ‘Deputy Dog’ eyes and quizzed me about this particularly unfortunate part of my genetic heritage. I suggested that this was just a throwback to The Famine. I also joked that - however indirectly – it was attributable to her community ('your lot', I think was the term I used).

‘Oh yes, we took all your potatoes didn’t we. Don’t remember all the details – I was very young.’

Lately, the ‘Famine Eyes’ have become less an object of banter and more a focus of genuine concern.

‘Seriously though. Freakishly tall, with a big nose and famine eyes. You can explain all that to the child when it is ostracised to its own corner of the playground and pelted with bits of packed lunch. ‘

I suggested that our genetic makeup could well fuse perfectly. We could create an ‘individual’. This individual could indeed inherit some of my burdens, this is true. They could also be blessed, nonetheless, with Maude’s forthright approach. This individual would deal frankly with all challenges in its way – even ‘famine eyes.’ Maude extracted the flattery from this theory and began to smile proudly. I was in my pyjamas and barefoot at the time. Her smiled faded as she looked down and began to scrutinise the imperfections of my feet....