Authors: Jon Rance
4. It would severely hamper our freedom.
5. No more weekend lie-ins.
6. What if it destroys our sex life?
7. What if it destroys our marriage?
8. I don’t feel anywhere near ready.
9. I’m too young.
10. At the moment we have a good life. We have two steady jobs and a nice house in a good part of London. Am I ready to put all of that in jeopardy for a baby?
11. Lastly (and most importantly I think) every couple we know with kids are the most boring people on the face of the planet. All they ever want to talk about is their bloody kids, e.g. ‘Last week Angus did his first banana-shaped poo, it was too adorable.’ Am I ready to become that dull? Am I ready to openly discuss poo with my nearest and dearest?
The cons won 11–8. Not a good sign. Bugger.
9.00 p.m.
Emily in bed. Still no sign of the mysterious blustery showers from the north. Having a last cigarette of the day by the back door. Side throbbing.
Strange banging noises coming from next door. Maybe they’re making a bomb! What should you do when you think your new neighbours might be potential terrorists? I’m tempted to do nothing, but what if they are terrorists and they blow up the Houses of Parliament? I’ll always be the bloke who could have stopped them, but didn’t. My ugly mug will be on the front pages of every newspaper in the country: ‘HISTORY TEACHER IN BOMB PLOT BUNGLE!’ I can already see the disappointment on my parents’ faces.
Wednesday, January 4th, 2.00 p.m.
At Starbucks. Sunny. Still no sign of blustery showers from the north. Pain in side getting worse.
I spoke to my parents this morning vis-à-vis grandchild on the way. Both parents were very excited, especially Mum. It took about fifteen minutes before she stopped simultaneously crying and squealing, while Dad chipped in with his usual stoic cameo, ‘Nice work, son.’ They’re popping up for a visit this weekend. Maybe I should have asked Emily if we’re telling people. I’ll mention it tonight. I’m sure it’s fine.
7.00 p.m.
We aren’t telling people. I casually mentioned over dinner that I’d told my parents and she went ballistic. Apparently, although she never mentioned this to me, she had a big plan to invite both of our families over for an official announcement party. It was going to be like the opening ceremony for the Olympic Games. I apologised, but she was unmoved and hasn’t said a word to me since.
I may have to make an appointment to see Dr Prakish about the pain in my side. It’s getting worse. I don’t want to die because of sit-ups.
Interesting development regarding the so-called blustery showers from the north. Tonight the weatherman didn’t even mention it. The outlook for the next five days is good to fair. I’ve lost all faith in weather people. Not a great evening. To make matters worse, tomorrow’s the first day of the new term. Not looking forward to teaching again after the Christmas break. Roll on half-term.
Thursday, January 5th, 10.00 p.m.
In the lounge with an empty bottle of wine, six empty cans of lager and two empty packets of crisps. Emily in Buckinghamshire. All quiet on the Wimbledon front.
What a day. First day back at school was a disaster. I forced Year Ten to watch a video and half the class fell asleep. Gavin Haines was snoring so loudly that the kids who were awake couldn’t hear the television. I would have woken him up, but to be honest, I just didn’t have the energy. Year Eight got the medieval slide show (minus commentary).
At lunchtime I had a cigarette with Rory Wilkinson (Art) and told him all about my marital strife.
‘Still, at least now it’s happened, there’s no going back, eh,’ said Rory.
‘But what am I supposed to do? I just don’t know if I’m ready for this.’
‘Well you can either spend the next nine months in a mood about it or you can accept it and get ready to be a dad.’
‘They’re my only options?’
‘You could run away but I don’t think that’s much of a choice. Although Paul Gauguin did some of his best work after he left his wife and moved to Polynesia,’ Rory said before he added. ‘Although he died of syphilis.’
‘Cheers, Rory.’
I spent the afternoon thinking about my conversation with Rory. I decided I don’t want to spend the next nine months in a mood or die of syphilis. I need to show Emily that I can change, grow up and be the husband/father she so desperately craves. I’m finally ready to be that man. I was excited to get home and tell her, but my enthusiasm was short-lived because when I got home from school she wasn’t here and instead I found a note on the fridge. I’d been Dear John-ed.
Harry,
I realise you didn’t mean to be a thoughtless, callous idiot when you told your parents about the baby. I also realise you’re scared stiff about being a dad, but this is something we have to do together. It’s make or break time and I need to know you’re going to be there for me and our baby. I’ve gone to my parents for a couple of nights. I hope this will give you some time to think about things.
I love you.
Emily x
I was incredulous. I rang her up straight away but her dad answered. Derek’s an ex-copper and quite bloody scary. He’s six-foot tall and about the same width and spent thirty years patrolling the streets of East London. He isn’t to be messed with. The conversation didn’t go well.
‘Hello, Derek, is Emily there?’
‘She is.’
‘Can I speak to her?’
‘Not at the moment.’
‘Why?’
‘She seems upset and wants to talk to us.’
‘About the baby?’
‘Baby, what baby?!’ Fuck. She obviously hadn’t told them yet. She was going to hate me.
‘Well … umm … shit.’
‘Is Emily pregnant?’ This is when I heard Emily in the background. ‘Emily wants a word.’ Fuck.
‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’ Emily screamed down the line.
‘I … err … sorry.’
‘Aggh!’ said Emily and hung up the phone.
That was five hours ago. Since then I’ve finished six cans of lager, half a bottle of wine and a packet of cigarettes. I watched England’s tragic exit from Euro ’96 on penalties to Germany on YouTube (why Gareth Southgate, why?) and I listened to the Baddiel and Skinner classic, ‘Three Lions on a Shirt’. I also listened to an entire James Blunt album. It’s been an emotional night. I’m pathetic. The only good thing is that because I’m so drunk I can’t feel the pain in my side anymore.
4.00 a.m.
Woken up by a loud drilling noise from next door. Maybe I should pay them a visit. I need to see inside their house before I call MI5. I don’t want to waste the taxpayer’s money if they’re just making home improvements. Suicide bomber or DIY enthusiast?
Friday, January 6th, 9.00 a.m.
At home. Eating a sausage sandwich. Emily still in Buckinghamshire. Pain in side worse than ever.
I had an erotic dream last night about the girl who lives at number seven. She’s only about eighteen, but drop dead gorgeous. We were in the garden shed, which was really messy (must clean out the shed) and she was naked, but when she pulled my underwear down I had no penis! All I had was a smooth area like an Action Man figure. Then my old maths teacher Mr Rogers walked in wielding an enormous knob and they went off together. What could that mean?
I called in sick today. I couldn’t face school with my marriage in tatters. I tried calling Emily this morning but she was still asleep (according to her mum). I’m meeting best mate Ben at twelve. Hopefully he’ll have answers.
1.00 p.m.
Canary Wharf. Just finished a very tasty steak and kidney pie. Ben outside on the phone. Emily still in Bucks.
Ben is organising a big lads night out. I explained everything and he said what I needed was, ‘A break from all the drama and to get really, really pissed!’ I think Ben might be a genius. He’s on the phone now summoning the cavalry. This will be my first big night out in a long time. Tonight is going to be wonderful. No worrying about having a baby, upset wife or living next door to potential terrorists. Tonight is all about being with the lads, getting drunk and having fun. Just like the good old days!
Saturday, January 7th, 11.00 a.m.
Home (just). Head hurts (a lot). Side hurts (more than head). Morning sickness (where did that come from?). Emily asleep upstairs.
I AM NEVER DRINKING AGAIN! Quite possibly the worst night of my life. It started well with a few pints in Covent Garden, but once we got to the club it all started to go pear-shaped.
We were on the dance floor making absolute fools of ourselves. Simon (Bano) Bannister (professional shark) was doing his best to pull every girl in the club. Richard (Ritchie) Dennis (professional accountant and contender for the world’s most serious individual) was giving some poor girl advice on her investments. Ben was chatting up a girl at the bar and I was slaughtered and barely able to stand up. Then, at about midnight, trouble erupted. It turned out one of the girls Bano was dancing with had a boyfriend. It also turned out he’d just walked in with a couple of his mates. Long story short, we heard shouts and then the next moment we saw Bano flying across the dance floor. The next hour was pandemonium, but the outcome was that we were all arrested and spent the night at a police station. This, unfortunately, wasn’t the worst part of the evening.
For some reason, when asked for a contact, I gave Emily’s number and when light broke through the cell window in the morning, there was Emily and her dad waiting to take me home. I have never been so embarrassed. The car ride home was silent. When we got back Derek left (with a menacing stare) and Emily said (in that scary way of hers when I can’t tell how mad she really is), ‘I was hoping you were going to use these two days to grow up. I didn’t expect to have to come and get you from the police station. To say I’m disappointed is an understatement. I’m going upstairs to bed. Don’t even think about trying to join me.’
And to make matters worse, my parents should be arriving within the hour to celebrate their first grandchild. Brilliant.
7.00 p.m.
In the shed. Smoking a cigarette. Emily having a bath. Parents probably somewhere on the M3.
My parents (God bless them) turned up with balloons, a giant teddy bear and party poppers just as Emily came walking down the stairs. Perhaps I should have warned them about the situation. It was too much for Emily, who ran back upstairs crying. I had to sit my parents down and explain that Emily was having a hard time and was a bit emotional. I left out the bit about me being a callous bastard and getting arrested.
‘I told you we shouldn’t have brought that stupid giant teddy,’ said Dad.
‘Let me talk to her, Harry, she needs a woman’s touch,’ said Mum. I tried in vain to stop her but my mother is a very determined woman.
‘Right then, we’re going to the pub,’ said Dad and off we went.
Dad got a couple of pints and we sat by the window. I didn’t want to talk about the baby and so that only left football or him as topics open for discussion. I chose the latter.
‘How are you and Mum?’
‘Don’t ask.’
‘I just did.’
‘Your mother’s in a stinker of a mood.’
‘Why?’
‘Goodness knows.’
‘Did you ask her?’
‘And have my head bitten off? No thanks.’
Sometimes it’s easy to see why I’m the emotionally redundant, typical bloody man that annoys Emily so much. I come from a family where best case scenario, we can ignore anything that might vaguely resemble a conversation, and worst case scenario, we might have to talk about something slightly important. Not feelings or emotional needs but something similar. We’re the human equivalent to ostriches.
After a few minutes of awkward silence, Dad and I retired to our happy place (football), where we could talk for hours without the distraction of having to discuss anything remotely personal or important.
Monday, January 9th, 7.00 p.m.
What’s happening to me? Admittedly, I’ve been going grey for a while now, but it always felt like something that was happening gradually. A bit like global warming. Suddenly, however, I’ve got huge clumps of grey sprouting up everywhere. It seems the salad days when I could use Emily’s tweezers to pluck out the occasional stray grey are but a memory. Now the only solution is hair dye, but do I want to go down that road? Surely it’s best to grow old and grey gracefully.
I also have more pressing hair issues to deal with. My nose seems to be under the impression that more is definitely better. Unfortunately, my ears also seem to have jumped on the hairy bandwagon. The result is that I spend at least five minutes every day in front of the mirror man-scaping all of the excessive hair from my various extremities. This is the first sign that middle-age is definitely looming large. At the moment I’m winning the battle, but soon, one day, I’ll wake up and the forest of unwanted hair will be beyond my control and then I’ll be my father. Ironically, while I’m sprouting superfluous facial and body hair like it’s going out of fashion, the hair on my head is retreating faster than a platoon of well-trained Italian soldiers. Just my luck!