Posted on by JonnyB

I hear a knock on the door!!!

Previously this would have been a major event in the day. In the week, come to think of it. A knock on the door would have been a prompt for an exciting leap into the air, followed by a scurry to see who my Mystery Visitor was.

That was then. I look up from my newspaper in some annoyance.

Between feeding, winding, hugging, clearing up poo, changing nappies, making up bottles, washing up, clearing up the bits of poo that I missed first time round, doing laundry and feeding again, I have very little time to do all those little things that make life bearable – reading the newspaper, listening to banjo music etc. Now some idiot is knocking on my door.

I put down my newspaper. Current affairs will have to wait. If it is that Lord Levy then I will tell him to piss off.

I throw open the door. Two ladies ask me how I am.

My guard shoots up like a Pete Doherty. In my experience, people do not go around knocking at other peoples’ doors to ask them how they are. In fact it is a pretty good rule in life that any stranger who starts a conversation by asking how you are is likely to be winding up into some form of pitch that will make the answer that you gave them everso slightly less true.

“I’m fine. Thank you.” I study them through bleary, sleepless eyes.

“Would you like to talk about the Bible?” one asks.

“I’m really busy…” I begin.

“Oh well, don’t worry,” she replies. “Do you not believe in God?”

“I…” I begin (again).

“You have a nice day.” And with that, cheerful and smiling, they are gone.

I stand there for a minute. As sales techniques go, this seems to be from the ‘auditioning for Sir Alan Sugar’ school, and I conclude that I have just been doorstepped by the two most rubbish Jehovah’s Witnesses in Britain.

Retreating indoors, I look in the mirror. I try to decide whether I look particularly heathen – to question whether, by taking one look at my depraved and amoral face, two middle-aged ladies could immediately conclude not only that I am not a regular churchgoer but that I am so far towards the ‘Satan’ end of the norm group that any form of spiritual rescue is out of the question. I can’t see it myself, although I appear to have a slight squint that might look demonic in a certain light.

It is slightly worrying. Baby Servalan starts crying. I give her a quick check for hooves before sticking the kettle on for a feed.

Posted on by JonnyB

My baby is a heifer!!!

I weighed myself the other day. I do this occasionally, if I am feeling overly cheerful in the morning, as this tends to make me feel a bit ill.

I climbed on to the scales. I looked at the digital readout. I goggled at it a bit, and decided to eat fewer pies. Then I realised that I was holding the baby.

A foolish mistake to make. But it gave me the opportunity to put her down, weigh myself again, then work out how much it was that she weighed (it is quite easy, you take one figure away from the other, there is no need to involve a health visitor at all).

I looked up her weight on the NHS percentile chart.

My baby is a heifer!!!

She is off the scale. That is not an overly-enthusiastic way of saying that she is a ‘bit heavy’; she is genuinely and incontrovertibly off the scale of what babies should weight. I checked it twice, then examined her closely. She does not seem to be especially porky, nor has she got a particularly large head, nor did she have lots of spare change in her pockets.

Short Tony pointed out to me that this ‘get on the scales carrying something then put it down and get on the scales again and take one figure away from the other (not involving a health visitor)’ process was a bit like a scene from one of the Mr Bean programmes.

I found this a bit depressing as I have a specific rule in life not to base any of my actions on scenes from the Mr Bean programmes or, indeed, anything that was written by or has involved Richard Curtis. It makes it so inconvenient when one meets American ladies in country house situations.

I stared at Baby Servalan. If there is going to be a new world record heavy baby then it may as well be her; it is just sad that Roy Castle is not around to formally announce it to the world.

Posted on by JonnyB

“That’s it!” announces the LTLP.

I glance at her in concern.

“I am officially PISSED OFF with washing up.”

I know that she has been unhappy for some time. She has been complaining of a bad back from where she has to lean over the sink, and the occasional session without marigolds has caused the skin on her hands to go a bit singingdetectivey.

“I know you are,” I reassure her. “Just think though – we’ll be back in our nice cottage in three months or so, with our brand new dishwasher.”

She fixes me with a stare. I suddenly come over all worried, like a small boy who’s fallen into the leopard enclosure.

“No. I need you to help.”

“But I have helped! I got you that special washing up liquid for sensitive skin. Plus I always try to use a paper plate if possible.”

“I need you to do some fucking washing up!”

I feel myself being engulfed by leopards. I look this way, then that way, then this way again. A miraculous superhero thing emerges from neither this way nor that way in order to help me out. She seems really cross now.

“All you do,” she continues, “is stupid easy jobs like – quote – ‘hanging the washing up’ – unquote – that appears to involve you disappearing upstairs with the washing basket in order that you can sneak onto the PC and have conversations with your internet DWEEB FRIENDS.”

This seems a bit unjust, and needs challenging. “They are not exactly my friends…” I begin. But she is not interested. I skulk back into the lounge and contemplate my forthcoming life of drudgery.

Posted on by JonnyB

Outside the tube station there is a flower stall.

It’s a magnificent affair – bustling and bright and perky – and stocks every single flower that you could name: roses, and tulips, and all the other sorts of flower.

I waited there to meet somebody for another Very Important Meeting.

A man lumbered into view. He was well-built, but his bulk came from the several layers of clothing around him. Lugging a huge and filthy backpack, presumably holding his worldly possessions, his face was worn and his beard neglected. I watched him as he approached.

He clutched a polythene bag – the sort that you only get from convenience stores, generic branding and material thinner than advance ticket sales for the Glitter comeback gig. Through the plastic you could see stacked the classic gold of Special Brew – no cheap imitations, two four-packs – formally identifying him as a member of the paramilitary wing of CAMRA. He reached the stall and rummaged in this bag.

“Here,” he croaked, pulling out a tiny box of Ferrero Rocher and awkwardly offering it to the lady on the flower stall. “I just wanted to say thank you very much.”

And with that he was gone.