Posted on by JonnyB

“How about this one?” I offer.

The baby eyes me with enthusiasm disguised as suspicion.

“You’re just too good to be trooooo… can’t take my eyes offfa yoooo… you’d be like heaven to tuchhhh… I wanna hold yooo so muchhh…”

Even as soon as half way through the first verse, the baby is looking increasingly alarmed. I hold the guitar where she can see it so she can witness me playing the complicated chords that she has been so slow to learn on her Fisher-Price Peek-A-Boo piano.

“This is the good bit!!!” I cry, as a stream of sick slides down her chin and on to her t-shirt.

“Daaa naa daaa naa daaa da na da na daaa naa daaa naa daaa da na da na…”

The baby goes very red, scrunches up her face and then smiles delightedly. The smell of fresh shit drifts up from her chair.

“Aaah lurve yoooo bay-bee and if it’s quideall-rite I need yoo bay-be towarm thelone leee nights o priddybay-beeeee…”

“Stoppit!!! Stoppit!!!”

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“Watch this,” I say, picking up my guitar. “She loves it.”

“Aaaahh stepped innnn, tooo an avvva-lannch,” I croon. “It cuvvverrd up maaah soul.”

Grandfather and baby looked on highly impressed.

“Youuu whoo wishhh – to Con-quer Painn, youuu must learn…”

The LTLP rushes in, a look of appalled concern across her face.

“Stoppit!!! Stoppit!!!”

“What?!?”

“Do NOT sing my baby Leonard Cohen songs. It’ll make her…” she tails off, unable to decide what it will make her.

I break off my song in a huff. I do not understand why one has to sing only juvenile songs to babies. Cohen’s work deals with love and death and sex and loss and immense longing, all subjects that are bound to come up in the National Curriculum. Plus the chords are quite easy.

“Dooo nott dressss in those RAGS for mee; I knoww youuu…”

“Stoppit!!! Stoppit!!!

It is sometimes difficult being the artistic one in a relationship. I accept the status of the LTLP as a world-renowned scientist, but I would not dream of giving her advice as to what to do with her beakers or whatever it is she does. I see no reason why she should interfere with my area of expertise in life (as evidenced by this very bit of writing) i.e. the pursuit of beauty and truth.

The baby seems unconcerned by all this. One day she will appreciate the trouble I have taken to educate her in the face of aggressive philistinism.

Posted on by JonnyB

I have some Easter visitors!!!

“We won’t get in your way,” announces my mother. “We’re going to go for a long walk today, aren’t we?”

My father nods, to cover an expression that is just the forlorn side of miserable. “Mmm,” he enthuses, like a man who has not only lost a shilling but found sixpence, but who has just been beaten with sticks and poked in the eyes by the man whose sixpence it was. He goes to fetch his coat, arthritically.

“Your father gets so tired these days,” she sighs, as she traces the route on the map. It is across about 27 folds. My offer to drive them to one end is accepted.

“I haven’t been in an open-topped car for years,” shouts my father, his enthusiasm levels suddenly boosted as the wind howls around our heads. “Probably since we were married.” A shadow momentarily darkens his face. I point out interesting sights as we speed through the Norfolk countryside.

” !” shouts my mother from the back seat.

“What???”

” !”

I look at her in the rear-view mirror. She has her coat pulled right round her and is huddling low, clutching her bag and hat. I’m sure there have been colder pensioners, but only as subjects of local TV news items that feature a neighbour explaining: “I went round there two years ago, but there was no answer so I assume she’d moved.” I decide that we had better get there as soon as possible, and put my foot down accordingly.

We arrive at our destination, one of the fashionabler coastal villages. Being Easter Monday, it is full of the okay yah contingent. I cruise through town with my shades on and deposit my pensioner cargo at the beach.

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I go to ASDA.

Not entirely sure how I got tricked into this, I sulk, wheeling Baby Servalan round in a trolley that should sport a Police-Aware sticker. The LTLP engages with the groceries, enthusiastically.

I queue at the checkout whilst she zips off to fetch This Week’s Thing That We Should Have Remembered Before We Got To The Checkout. In front of me is an elderly man. He catches my eye and seems to study me. Then he looks at Baby Servalan. Then he looks at me again.

“Well she’s better looking than you,” he remarks in a matter-of-fact way, before turning back to his shopping.

There is a significant pause before I respond by deciding that I can’t quite think of a response, and so I won’t dignify things by responding. We queue together in silence.

It is frustrating when you can’t think of anything to say in a situation. As a witty and urbane writer (‘superb’ – Web Active Magazine (now defunct due to no sales)) I am used to being able to articulate my point in a polished and flowing fashion, but I find things less easy in verbal intercourse. I briefly consider asking him to submit his point to me in writing, but decide against it. The rude cunt who will die shortly.

The most stupid thing is that of course he is completely wrong. As most readers will be aware, I am very good looking, whereas Baby Servalan just looks like a baby. So he has made himself look an idiot without me having to even try.

I resolve not to shop in ASDA again. I do not get this sort of confrontation in the Village Shop; we enjoy a better class of customer in there.