Why do old people have so many clocks in their houses? Each room in Eileen’s house contains a manually wound timepiece which requires weekly winding. They all tick away growing increasingly loud with their predatory tick-bloody-tock, measuring the seconds of my passing life. I feel like poor old Captain Hook constantly looking over my shoulder for my nemesis, the ticking crocodile.
Of course the tick-tocking of Eileen’s chronometers is nothing compared to the deafening roar of my biological clock, which for some reason has chosen this week to make itself heard. Clearly 28 years and 1 month, give or take, is the appropriate age for evolutionary instinct to hijack your body. My body is saying I want a child: I look at pregnant woman with envy; small children playing with their fathers makes me think of baby names (Tallulah and Indigo?) and the cute little 7 year old who sank Sinatra’s ‘My Way’ on Britain’s got Talent nearly had me in tears.
But just to qualify this I’ve never wanted children. So strong was my conviction that my poor mother whisked us off to a Chinese Astrologer, who assured her I would have progeny (although he also said I’d get married at 35 – oops, out by ten years and I would make money with my mind – again, I wipe geriatric anuses, not exactly mind bending work). My mother will no doubt be thrilled that my body has turned against me in such a manner. 5 years ago she started hanging artwork around her house at midget height. One day I questioned if she was having an exhibition for carnies (you know circus folk, small hands, smell like cabbage*) she said the art was being hung at the correct eye-level for her grandchildren!
And then there’s my poor Husband, the other day he phoned whilst I was eyeing out a particularly sweet family unit, to report that he was doing something irresponsible. Now this is not unusual he is notorious for his irresponsible and often very amusing behaviour, for example he pushed the emergency panic button, because it was ‘red’ said ‘emergency’ and he’d had a bit of whisky and so it felt like and emergency to him. Or when he borrowed a friend’s van, noticed it was over heating and so scrambled round in the back until he found a container proclaiming to be ‘De-ionised water’ as it smelt and looked like water he topped up the water levels and carried on his way. Moments later he was forced to stop as apparently there was a foam-party going on under the bonnet of the car. Turns out he’d added a soapy solution to the car, which then belched white foam as it slugged all the way home.
Usually I laugh at the Husband’s tales of irresponsibility but on this occasion, while watching the perfect 2.4 family unit, I flipped my wig. I gave him a thorough lecture and hung up the phone unable to communicate with him for the next 12 hours. He of course has no idea that I was livid because his actions were so out of sync with my imaginings. That’s me just thinking about children, imagine if I actually had them I’d turn into the raging Tiger Mother – demanding perfect table manners, wit, charm and high achieving school reports.
Did I mention we live in a bus? Why, oh, why is my body doing this to me? It’s all Eileen’s fault – living with a depressive who has no living family has caused a natural reflex to produce a multitude of sproggery (new word) to look after me well into my years of decrepitude.
Maybe this phase will pass, like the time I wanted a flying Unicorn for Christmas...
*Little ode to Austin Powers.
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