A One-Sided Telephone Conversation on the Event of the Birth of a Child
Of course none of us are pleased! I can’t believe you’d ask me that. What god-fearing parents in their right minds would give their blessing to a union like that?
Just a moment, I’m going to pour some tea. There we go. Christ, I might need something stronger in a minute.
What? No, he said nothing to us – nothing at all, not until things were well under way. Something of a fait accompli, you might say. I couldn’t believe it when I found out – Henry was absolutely horrified too, needless to say – God knows what they’ll think at the bank. A child – out of wedlock! And we haven’t even met the mother.
Oh for God’s sake – you can cut that tone out right now. We all know you’re desperate for a grandchild. You might think you want one at any cost but, believe you me, some prices are far too high to pay. Any anyway, there’s nothing wrong with your Hugo. Homosexuality is quite the fashionable attribute these days, so I’m told. I’m certainly beginning to wish Charles was.
What? No, not yet. We’re going over to the meet the little thing on Saturday. Apparently we’ll interfere with its zen or feng shui or something if we turn up bearing our revolting, unorganic germs before then.
I knew you were going to ask that. Well, look – it’s not on the birth certificate yet so, if I tell you, I don’t want this spreading about. Oh and we’re still in negotiations for the middle name. Apparently she’s open to something more traditional for that – it gives a balanced karma or some other nonsense. So I see that as something of a foot in the door. What? Yes, of course – it would be our family name, Albert. So that’s something – all things being well we should be able to virtually ignore the Christian name (though I shudder to call it that) and the little mite can use the much more sensible option.
No, no – I realise I haven’t actually come out with it. Oh God, it really is the most diabolical name. I can hardly bring myself to… Hang on, let me pour a gin and tonic…There, I’ll just have a couple of swigs… That’s better. It’s Yarnstorming.
Yes, you heard me correctly. Yarnstorming. Apparently – oh God – it’s a type of urban knitting graffiti. People knit or crochet things and drape them over lampposts and buses and whatnot. It’s supposed to artistically reclaim the urban landscape. Utter rot. I’m told that it’s what she believes my grandson is doing – bringing natural beauty and creativity to a dubious, rundown part of south London. Oh yes, that’s where they’re living, didn’t I tell you? What’s wrong with Dorset, I said? I offered them the annexe, obviously – and, between you and me, I thought it would give me ample opportunity to rescue little Albert and ensure he has a proper upbringing. But I’m told our cottage doesn’t have the right ‘karma’. How can this woman possibly know that when she hasn’t even seen the place?!
