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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

While in London, I remembered that it was my goddaughter’s birthday on Friday. I am not good with birthdays, dates, anniversaries, or even knowing the day of the week that we’re currently experiencing, so although this looks like a ridiculous oversight on my part, it’s very well tolerated by my god daughter, because she is now (or will, in two days time, be) a grown up lady of 14 years old.

I texted her to find out what kind of special thing she’d like for her birthday, and she replied that, of course, she would like something colourful. That is not helpful advice from a nearly 14 year old, but I did my best to look about for shiny things. I also thought that maybe it would be fun to get her something that her mother would disapprove of, but couldn’t quite put my finger on what that might be. We’re saving getting her drunk, stoned and then getting a skull and crossbones tattooed on her until she’s 16, you see.

She also reminded me of a promise I very unwisely made to her on her 10th birthday. I was 14 when she was born, and so the age of 14 is kind of a magic age between us. I told her that while she was 14, if I got married she would be bridesmaid, and that if I had a baby she would be godmother. So she also suggested that, for her birthday, she’d quite like me to get knocked up, because I think even she realises 2 days isn’t enough notice to organise a wedding.

Strangely enough, my other goddaughter, who has just turned 8 years old and is one of the prettiest little girls on the planet, asked me very recently when I was going to have a baby. They both appear to think that I’m a lot old than I am (which is TWENTY FIVE and always will be, no matter what calendars, time or God says), and are monitoring my biological clock closely for me, because lord knows I’m not paying it due attention.
This kind of insistent train of thought wasn’t helped by the fact that, around Stoke Newington where I was staying in London, there are a TREMENDOUS amount of babies. Happily, the vast majority of these babies are of the very ugly, only-a-mother-could-love-a-face-like-that kind of babies. I’m really not very interested in babies. Cigarettes, booze and sharp implements interest me a lot more, and apparently you’re not allowed any of them around the little ‘uns.

This entry was posted on 03 November 2004 at 5:22 pm. 0 comments

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