So a baby has been born unto this world.
Hallelujah. Now I’m not anti-monarchist, but I am completely against half my morning paper being given over to photographs of a little bundle of cells that, on first sight, as with most babies, could virtually belong to anyone. By this same miracle of nature I have produced three children. Treble Hallelujah. Mind you, it was quite a while ago. The first two were, by coincidence, also born at St Mary’s in Paddington but in the NHS rooms rather than the eye-poppingly expensive Lindo wing, with not a Queen’s gynaecologist nor TV crew in sight.
Now, I really thought that by now I should be reaping the rewards of motherhood. Eldest daughter has recently passed her driving test and that, I felt, should be a cause for celebration. After almost two decades of being an unpaid taxi driver at all times of the day and night, the tables would now be turned.
Earlier this week I sent her off to deliver a parcel on the other side of town (apologies to any courier companies who feel that they are being done out of a job). On return, she announced that whilst parking she had introduced the rear of the car to one of those huge concrete blocks which you see all over the city with some sort of ‘temporary’ (hah!) roadworks signs on them. “Sue the council” I suggested and she’s thinking about doing just that, although I suspect they would respond by saying they would sue her driving instructor.
Later that day we met up with her and a friend to have supper at Mother India. I drove, thinking that she would transport us home as we slumped in the seats replete with curry and beer. But she’d already met someone in a bar and had had a couple (as they say, the apple never falls far from the tree), so it was yours truly who laid off the booze and, minus the cap, did the impression of a chauffeur.
I somehow doubt that Kate and Will shall be having this problem in 18 years’ time.