William’s Progress. Matt Rudd

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ made up for it now with a twenty-five-minute speech on how our bathroom would be the bathroom to set the new standard for all bathrooms. And then he just started saying random words. Light. Space. Air. Movement. Energy. Calm. Length. Girth. Swirling vortex. Drip. Drop. Drip. Movement.

      ‘You already said movement,’ I point out.

      ‘Movement. Movement. Movement,’ he continues.

      Nothing good will come of this.

      Monday 21 January

      Don’t tell Isabel. Nobody tell her, for goodness’ sake. This must be our little secret. But, oh my, the joy! The joy of leaving home, of bidding farewell to my beloved wife and my beloved three-week-old child, of strolling to the station on a crisp winter morning, buying a coffee, boarding a train and sitting unmolested for forty-five whole minutes – no, more than forty-five minutes because the train is delayed due to the late running of an earlier service. No crying. No screaming. No panicking.

      Bliss.

      Let the train be delayed all day. Let me sit here in this railway siding, staring into space, dribbling a bit like a baby but not with a baby that I have to worry about all the time. Even when the pointy-faced little woman sitting next to me still doesn’t move her bag on to her lap when I ask politely, I refuse to let the bliss dissipate. I simply open my paper as unthoughtfully as possible, allowing its pages to encroach on her personal space. I have had enough practice of commuter one-upmanship to remain unflustered in the face of pointy-faced rudeness.

      The bliss lasts until the minute I get to work. Even though he only sits two desks away, Johnson sends me an e-mail: ‘Welcome back. And by the way, I don’t know if you’ve been keeping up to speed with the Media Guardian and I’m sorry I didn’t mention this before, though I was being thoughtful because you were having a baby, but did you know that Anastasia has been made Editor?’

      ‘Corridor. Now,’ I reply.

      He isn’t joking. Anastasia, who was work experience less than eighteen months ago, has been appointed the youngest-ever editor of Life & Times magazine. The teenager over whom I once threw a cup of (cold) tea because she was so irritatingly efficient is now the boss. I start strangling the water cooler.

      ‘Not having anger-management issues again, are we, Walker?’

      It’s her: our four-year-old boss.

      ‘No, no, he isn’t,’ mumbles Johnson. ‘He was telling me how much fun being a dad is. Turns out not much fun at all. Hahahaha.’

      ‘Johnson, a baby is a lifestyle choice. We mustn’t feel sorry for people who opt to procreate. Even idiots could grasp the fundamentals of a condom if they wanted to. Now, conference in fifteen minutes. And I want some fresh ideas for front of book. It’s looking tired. Tireder than poor Walker here.’

      

      I go back home that evening wondering how best to break it to Isabel. In the end, I opt for the direct approach.

      ‘Isabel, I’m afraid I have to resign. Anastasia has become Editor.’

      ‘Oh no, you don’t. You have a family to support. We can’t live on my maternity leave. Now take Jacob. I’ve had him all day.’

      And the matter is closed.

      Thursday 24 January

      It has occurred to me that now I am a dad with a bitch for a boss, the train is the only place where I can relax. At home, I appear to have developed a sensor on my arse that triggers an order from Isabel. Every time I sit down, no matter how gingerly, I set off the sensor: ‘Darling, I’m breast-feeding. Could you pass a muslin?’

      I get up, I get the muslin from all the way upstairs, I come back, I sit down and I trigger the sensor again.

      ‘Sorry, darling. And a glass of water.’

      Repeat. ‘And another cushion.’

      Repeat.

      ‘Could you not group your requests in some way?’ I ask. And this makes her apologise and so I feel terrible. But, really.

      At work, Anastasia is on my case. She breaks up a group of people ahhing at the new baby photo on my desk. She barks at me every time I look like I’m about to drop off (which is frequently, because the sofa bed doesn’t provide quite the blissful night’s sleep I had initially hoped for). She criticises my poor grammar, even though it isn’t poor at all. Not really.

      The train is all I have left. No one can bark at me on the train. And the sensor on my arse is out of range. And this is the reason why I won’t let the pointy-faced woman who keeps hogging one and a half seats on my carriage annoy me. She is short. She is ginger. Life cannot have been easy for her. This is her way of getting her own back on the world. I won’t rise to it.

      Saturday 26 January

      Today marked our first social occasion as a mobile family unit. It was only lunch at Isabel’s parents who only live a ten-minute walk away, but it was still something of a milestone. We hoped, I think, that it might have gone better, that it might have been enjoyable, but even with military-style planning, it didn’t and it wasn’t.

      We asked Isabel’s mum to have lunch ready at midday because, if we have managed to establish any kind of routine – which we haven’t – it was that Jacob tends to need bouncing to sleep from 2 until 3 p.m., or he screams until 8 p.m.

      We arrived at 1.20 p.m. because we were about to set off an hour earlier, but then Jacob needed a feed. And a change. And another feed. And another change. Then it started to rain and I couldn’t remember where I’d put the waterproof buggy cover, even though Isabel had expressly asked me to leave it somewhere handy. By the time I did find it, the rain had passed but Isabel had hunger-anger. It comes on quickly in breast-feeding mums. So she demanded toast even though lunch was but a ten-minute walk away. Until, at last we set off.

      Frankly, Sherpas bound for the summit of Everest carry less. I had at least nine bags containing everything from nappies and wet wipes to toys, changing mats, breast pads and nipple cream, arnica, snack bars, babygros, backup babygros, backup-backup babygros and a kitchen sink. I walked ten steps behind Isabel and Jacob all the way to the in-laws.

      We had roast chicken accompanied by a relentless monologue about timekeeping from her mum and advice on no-nonsense parenting from her dad. Isabel had no appetite because of the toast. Then we set off back to base camp, me with the nine bags plus four Tupperware containers of some kind of Polish stew and, inexplicably, a very large photo album from when Isabel was a baby. By the time we returned, Isabel needed more toast. I needed a lie-down.

      ‘You can’t lie down. Jacob needs changing.’

      ‘Seriously, how many times can one human being need changing in one hour?’

      ‘Darling, you are at work all week. You can’t complain about a bit of light parenting at the weekend.’

      It has begun. The thing I had been warned about. Mothers, completely understandably, complaining about how much easier it is for fathers because at least they can escape СКАЧАТЬ