I’ve already named my fantasy children. But are sequins appropriate for a parents’ evening?
Holed up alone in the country, watching the blue tits dash in and out of their nests, beaks bulging with wriggly food for their brood, I am consumed by womb envy. If only I had the requisite reproductive organs, I could lure some lad from the village into my house, give him a couple of ciders, and hey presto!
I, too, could be busy all day with a darling mini-me. I lie awake all night, fantasising about what to call my children (Asparagus for a girl, Sprout for a boy, I decide), debating the pros and cons of flash cards, private education, TVs in the bedroom, underage sex. Are sequins appropriate for a parents’ evening? Is a little foundation to cover freckles in a pre-schooler wrong? If I father triplets, might I dress them up as the Supremes?
I am exhausted by dawn and finally decide that, should the situation arise, I’d leave everything to the nanny. After all, I don’t get up until noon and, love my little ones as I undoubtedly would, my career must come first. It would be in no one’s interests for me to be deprived of sleep (a common hazard with parenthood, I believe). In fact, it would probably be best if they all lived in a chalet in the garden. Next door’s garden.
Like most homosexuals in their (very) late forties, I have a small, camp dog. To a degree, Valerie satisfies my unfulfilled parenting instincts. Just like a child, she loves me unconditionally, does her business on the lawn, and eats all my leftovers with relish – but suddenly she is not enough.
It’s my birthday in two weeks and I’ve made it very clear to the boyfriend that a seal point Siamese kitten would be an appropriate gift. His response has not been favourable. If only we were a heterosexual couple I could forget to take my Pill and something a little higher up the food chain than a whiffy mongrel might result. Then again, if being heterosexual means eating sandwiches in
lay-bys and having beige furniture, I’d rather go without. You have to draw the line somewhere.
When in London, I reside in Camden Town. I walked the dog around the block the other afternoon after the excitement of Deal or No Deal? and decided to pop into the corner shop. I was feeling decidedly Tuesday-ish, if you know what I mean. I tied Valerie to the railings outside and emerged 30 seconds later into the sunshine clutching some bin liners. It took me a few seconds to realise what the flickering lights signified. Two photographers were positioned either side of the shop entrance, darting out from behind lamp posts that were considerably thinner than they were. Gosh. I was being papped! This had happened to me once in Regent’s Park. The skinny-jean-wearing snapper jumped out of a tree, if you please, flashing at me for all the world as if I were Britney Spears.
Camden is heaving with BMWs loaded with paparazzi on the lookout for Amy Winehouse or Jude Law. They cruise around waiting for an opportunity and if they’re really bored they’ll make do with someone as low-grade as me. Even a Big Brother has-been could have his or her picture taken in Camden, if he or she hung around long enough. With digital cameras you don’t waste any film, you see. If it can’t be sold, it can be deleted.
It’s a weird experience if you’re not expecting it. Strangely violating. I’d been lolling around without a care, drinking Bacardi all afternoon. Goodness knows what my hair was like.
Talking of Amy Winehouse, if I had to choose a surrogate mother for my children, it would be her. I adore her. If she fancies the idea, she only has to get her people to contact my people and I’ll be right over with a turkey baster. Just think – our baby would have a lovely head of hair and a waspish sense of humour. Céline Dion crossed with Benny Hill. Perfect. Let’s face it, we both need a pension plan.
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