Hymn

Heard of Cows

I drove home a different way this afternoon and with intermittent sun and no stars, I was largely navigating by The Force.  I had to stop in a one-road village somewhere in Gloucestershire while the farmer herded his Children’s Book cows into the milking shed.  As I waited among the moo-ing, a human tortoise, hundreds of years old and craning his head to see over the steering wheel pulled out of a driveway next to me.  He drove an immaculate orange Austin Allegro with silver hubcaps.    From nowhere a spaniel-walking woman appeared.  Her hair was grey and arranged into a neat bun.  She wore a pink cardigan and Wellington Boots.  Even with my window right down I couldn’t quite hear their conversation - just a sort of bubbling sound in the moments of bovine quiet. 

An irritated White Van Man beeped angrily to say that herd had past and that I was a Twat.  As I kangaroo-ed forward he was in such hot pursuit that his transit obscured behind my headrest.  A moment later and the Ancient Allegro driver and his Cardi-wearing friend were gone.

Sounds Like

I’m not entirely sure how she does it.  It’s not just the volume, it’s the range of sounds she makes.  She chirps, bleeps, howls, growls; she splutters, she stutters, she whines.  She coos, she boos and she whirrs and clicks.  I’ll be quite sad when she stops her burbling.  Language can seem so inexpressive in comparison. 

Shit Happens

They warn you about moments like these.  You know, when poo goes everywhere, all over clothes and it’s spread further as you try to clear it up.  And there’s so much of it.  Hardly seems possible from one so small.  But this time it’s not a screaming newborn, it’s a woman in her 90’s shedding real tears.

Keep Sake

We have a dustbin bag of clothes that Baby has outgrown already.  It’s funny how our conversation made us realise something.  ‘Should we give them to the church’s nursery group?’  ‘What about one of the charity shops in town?’  ‘Do we know anyone who’s expecting?’  And then as it occurred to us that no matter how hard this has been, there’s a future: ‘Actually, maybe we should keep them.  For next time.’

Size Matters

As Baby gets bigger everything else seems to shrink.  Suddenly our house is too small to accommodate a nursery and a study, our car isn’t big enough for anything besides a pram and a car seat, our wardrobes can’t hold the relocated clothing, the doors are too narrow to wheel the pram through, Baby’s dresser can’t carry all her things, we can’t store the pram and hang our coats up, the nights are too short, sleep is too little, and our pay packets aren’t big enough to afford for it all. 

Maybe it’s not size.  Maybe it’s perspective.

Weather Vain

There are a number of pitfalls living a million miles from the office.  Not the least inconvenient is the entirely different climates.  This morning I left home dressed appropriately for the freezing rain and a whipping gale.  By mid-afternoon no amount of deodorant can disguise my humming armpits as I loll in sub-tropics of the South.  And I still have the evening rush hour tube to enjoy.

Weight a Minute

Four and a half weeks and eight pounds thirteen ounces.  She’s gained nine ounces in the last week.  That’s great except actually I don’t understand Imperial weights at all.  I have to concentrate really hard to work out how many ounces there are in a cubit and how many florins there are in a Melchizedek.  If only metric measures had fewer syllables and were easier to say I’m sure they’d be common currency and counting on one’s fingers so much more useful.

Sucker

Suckling is one thing that consistently calms Baby.  If she's hungry we'll feed her.  She likes it.  And she knows how it works.  So now when she's feeling unsettled she'll perform her hungry chick dance. After a couple of token gulps, she'll be fast asleep. Unless you try to move her.  She's not fooled by dummies: she spits them out.  Last night I achieved partial success.  Apparently my finger is a reasonable nipple substitute.  A few sucks and she’s snoring away.  Happy baby.  The only downside - I spend what's left of the night with a small child attached to my hand.

Drag

The Trumpeter was outside again today.  He’s out in the daylight again and I’m worried that he’s endangering his pallid complexion and risks sun-bleaching his black clothes.  But more surprisingly, he was with a girl.  A real girl.  At least I think it was a girl, for there was no discernible figure or feminine features.  It just felt like she should be a girl.  And they were smoking.  I think he waved but then he might have just taken another drag.

Quick Hit

It’s all very well taking shortcuts through the tube stations, especially when you’re the one doing it, but when you’re going in the designated direction, with the flow and you’re running late, the last thing you want is a collision with a short fat balding sweaty businessman hurrying the other way.  And then he has the audacity to squawk with me for blocking his path.  As I watch the train leave without me, I console myself by punching him furiously in my mind.  And feel slightly better.