I met a baby this weekend.
I met a baby and there was no screaming, crying, or shuddering. From me or from little Riley.
He was curled against his mum, just a day or so old, snuffling contentedly. His mother looked exhausted (54 hours of labour. FIFTY-FOUR HOURS) and his father was positively beaming.
He is the first child born to anyone I actually know.
To people of my generation. People I see quite regularly and could call friends.
Not to family, not to distant school friends, not to the older or younger siblings of friends.
I was terrified when I heard they were having a baby. But they’re so YOUNG, are they going to keep it? was my gut reaction. But seeing their little family? Didn’t seem so odd.
Then, they are not wild ones. They have always been happier going to an early movie then heading home. They own a home, and a cat, and more than one car. They DIY. They have not travelled. They are not at all similar to me.
But seeing them as parents didn’t scare me.
Is this growing up?
Either way. There is a lot more of the world I want to see before I take that path. A lot. One of the few on which there can be no turning back.
Post-audition gelato (Pistachio!) with my mama, sister, and a lovely Nun.
Yep. She called me Sue and said I was pretty. Also, she told us about how she “buried” her dog by dumping the body off the end of a wharf. And no, she didn’t see why that was illegal.
* Also? Unfortunate juxtaposition. Explosion at Pike River next to explosion at Mt Ruapehu.
I accidentally deleted the self-portrait for this week.
Yes I am very annoyed.
Dearest darling London,
Today I ache for you.
I read and reread the article A.A. Gill wrote for The Times about St Paul’s Cathedral and I sigh.
St Paul’s Cathedral is the solemn, eternal boss and hub of our city. We look up for it, mark our bearing by it, judge our distance from the lantern on top. It is the axis of a compass. The great dome is the calm centre of the spinning city.
A couple of nights ago, thinking in the liminal dark, I was struck by the idea for a tattoo*, a bolt of lightening from my subconscious. The idea for a tattoo which honours my love for the city more than the obtuse and multi-symbolic crown on my right arm.
The idea arrived fully formed. So clear in my mind that I wanted to run out and get it straight away. But I am too sensible for that. I must wait to see if the seed idea grows roots.
Anyway, that’s all I wanted to say. I ache for you today, London.
* I’m done apologising to my parents for my tattoos.
They may have created my physical being but they also created who I am. And I am a person who loveloveloves my tattoos.
No Philip Larkin here. THIS be the verse: I love who they helped me become.