Radio 4
Â鶹ԼÅÄ Truths
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About John Peel
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Just Call Me!
There was a time, when Dave Smith and wife would guess how many messages there would be on the answering machine. Wayhay! The clever money would be riding on anywhere between ten and fifteen messages. But things have changed...
There was a time, not so long ago, when driving back from a long weekend away, my wife and I would play the mildly amusing game in the car, of guessing how many messages there would be on the answering machine. Whoever guessed the nearest, got to press the big red button, and listen to the messages. Wayhay! Alright, not a hugely exciting game I grant you, but you get your kicks where you can once you’ve hit thirty. The clever money would be riding on anywhere between ten and fifteen messages. But things have changed.
Since the arrival of my daughter, the only way to ensure getting even money in the Answerphone Game, is to bet on somewhere between zero and one message. There always used to be a handful of calls demanding my presence at some pub, club, wedding, picnic or funeral. Now, more often than not there’s just a big fat zero flashing at me as I walk through the door. My once busy dance card is rapidly becoming neglected and dog-eared.
What’s happened? I know I’m a Dad, but come on, I’m still fun to go out with. I am! I get my rounds in don’t I? I’ve even been known to be faintly amusing, given enough encouragement and alcohol.
I think some of my childless friends think that now I’m a father there’s no point in calling me. They think meeting up for a drink is going to need the sort of logistical planning which would have left the D-Day landings in the shade. Before joining them for a beer, I’m sure they imagine me in some smoky Bomber Command ‘ops room’, surrounded by pretty airforce girls with croupier sticks, carefully nudging models of me, my daughter, and a babysitter around a map of London. There’s no point in phoning me with a spontaneous 'fancy a pint tonight?' Anything less than a month’s notice and they’ve got no chance. At least not since poor old Algy bought it. They’re wrong. I’m available.
Perhaps I made the mistake of showing them one too many baby pictures when my daughter was first born.
They now think that if I do manage to arrange childcare, find clothes without slug trails of dribble on the shoulders, and come out on a night when I’m actually awake enough to make coherent conversation, I‘ll talk about kids and bore the pants of everyone. They think after a few beers, I won’t be able to help myself. The minute the subject veers anywhere near children, my fingers will start twitching, and out will come the wallet and cute photos. Ignoring the flared nostrils of suppressed yawns, I’ll ding on just one last time about how proud I felt, the first time I held my baby in my arms.
Fortunately I can still remember what it was like not to have a child, and how disappointing it was, to have one of your once entertaining and slightly unhinged mates turn up at the pub, only to corner you with a monologue about the pros and cons of the various three-wheeled buggies on the market. I’m well aware of how stupifyingly boring it can be when someone is forever changing the topic round to their child’s above average development, when you’re supposed to be ‘cutting a rug’ on a Saturday night.
I know the dangers. I went for a drink recently with a some mates - two of which had just become dads - and even found myself having to step in every half hour or so, calling a ‘time-out,’ as the conversation veered dangerously away from manly subjects and into the dopey realms of how wonderful children were. I’d wander back from the bar with the drinks and catch the tail end of '…and that’s when you realise how much you love them', or '…and even their poo smells OK when they give you that little smile.'
'Lads! Lads! Try to remember where we are.'
In the end I had to read them the riot act, and lay down a few ground rules about suitable topics for conversation in a pub. Even then I’m sure they were having a rapid session of cooing, gushing and exchanging of wallet photos every time I disappeared to the loo – they always looked strangely dewy-eyeded when I got back.
I thought my marshalling of the conversation between these two baby-bores would win me back the trust of my other mates. But no.
I think perhaps I’ve become a bit of a liability. Since fatherhood, so few and far between are my nights out, that when I do go out, I am a bit, let’s say, ‘keen on having a good time.’
The last time I ‘went out for a pint’ I ended up semi-naked in a bar, walked along the middle of the road with a traffic cone on my head singing Steps songs, chatted up a lamp-post, ate the last of my fags, and bought kebabs for a whole shop. Somewhere along the line I’d lost a shoe. I don’t think I mentioned kids once, though I can’t be sure.
I’ve now taken steps, and trying not to sound too sad and desperate, have casually made it clear to my friends that I’m available, and at fairly short notice – 'Tuesdays are good, about 7.20, just call! …Actually you’d better make it 7.45 so the phone doesn’t wake Lily. She’s usually asleep by then but you never know. We’ve tried to get her into a routine, but kids are funny about that kind of thing. We’ve just got this amazing new baby monitor right, you can actually walk round the house with it. I think she might be going through a phase, but…………'.(fade)
You can get the baby out of your hair - but out of your conversation?
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