Not Being a Grown Up

Not Being a Grown Up


On Sunday night I settled down in front of Top Gun, a film I
haven't seen for about 15 years, for a spot of luxurious nostalgic
indulgence. I came to the conclusion, with some pride, that I must have
grown up at least a little bit over the years, because the film that I
thought should win an Oscar for romance back in the eighties should
really be given a golden raspberry in the 21st century. No matter, it
was a delightful 98-minute trip down memory lane, as fresh as the smell
of aerosol perfume that we all sprayed on so liberally to hide the
stench of teenage angst - Denim for the boys, Impulse for the
girls.


It was a fitting antidote to a weekend of being extremely
grown up. On Saturday we travelled down to our old stomping ground of
Brighton where we were to visit one of our oldest friends and his
extremely pregnant one night stand of eight and a half months ago for a
barbeque. The sky's waters had broken at the ninth hour and it didn't
bode well.


When we arrive, old friend is struggling with Tofu kebabs and
something that resembles two halves of a seagull on a rickety barbeque,
pushing rain out of his eyes while the Pregnasaurus dispatches Pimms in
plastic glasses. They speak to each other only when necessary and then
through gritted teeth, as if competing in a ventriloquism competition.
However, there is something extremely contented about their manner, he
seems slightly more spread and balding than when I saw him last week;
she like a nutty polished cello, highly strung and perfectly rounded.



We are not alone. This party is a meeting of their respective
"families", in the twenty-first century sense of the word: his beer
swilling rowdy crowd, her clients and friends from the chicest
alternative therapy centre in the south east. Another couple had
arrived before us, the hottest new black actor in town and his
"partner", a Reiki practitioner (although more the Top Shop than Tibet
variety which make her instantly adorable) and their ten-month-old baby
with an incurable grin and Eskimo hair. We settle down with our anoraks
and our plastic cups and then it begins: baby talk.


It's a funny line you seem to cross when you've had babies,
or are expecting them, or even just contemplating them. They dominate
all conversation. Something as innocuous as "would you like a drink?"
is mostly met by "well, I'm still breast feeding but I suppose one
won't hurt" or "did you see Big Brother last night" usually gets a
reply along the lines of "well baby needed a change at ten, and then I
couldn't get him down again". And inevitably, with two new mothers, on
opposing ends of partum, talk turns to the intimate functions of the
female body. I think of a book that my mother in law gave me a few
months ago: "Pregnancy, from conception to birth", these girls can
cover the whole spectrum in one sentence. Words like perineum and
hemorrhoid instantly propel me to the other end of the garden for a
swift fag. And suddenly I realise that, at the grand old age of thirty,
I have never been to a party with children present before.



And there are more to come. Next through the door are Jay,
Bea and baby Elle, a cute family of consonants. Introductions barely
made and suddenly there are buggies and cradles and bouncers and nappy
bags everywhere, no room any more for the beer cans and Rizla packets
that usually serve as party decorations for our gatherings.



I offer to walk down to the seafront to buy cigarettes
(considering the holistic lot are all vegan and bendy, they don't half
smoke a lot). Truth is, having adulthood suddenly thrust upon me in
this manner may smell of baby powder but is mildly nauseating. I need
contemplate Brighton as it used to be: dancing ecstatically and
illegally until 4am then sitting by the sea watching the sun come up
before staggering for fryups and beach volley ball. I sit for a minute
on Ross's memorial bench and feel it move under me as he laughs at us
all, me included, although it's probably a car doing 180's in the
underground carpark beneath. He laughs harder.


Back at the nursery, the entertainment has arrived, in the
form of a great friend who disappeared from the circuit after the birth
of his first child four years ago (possibly more through guilt than
nappy duty, he was dating my best mate at the time of conception). He
is not the entertainment, his two horrors are. Suddenly no-one is
capable of conversation beyond screams of "AJ is heading for the
barbeque? someone stop him quick" or "Aidee, don't hit that man with
that stick?. You hardly know him", as if knowing him would make it
acceptable. These kids are the criminals of tomorrow, I can tell you
that now. That or future pop idol contestants.


It takes fifteen adults (I include myself in this for once)
to marshal, observe and obsess over these two arse-lit fireworks with a
combined age of five and a half. Their mother floats about looking
gorgeous, knackered and increasingly pissed. I decide to take charge
and offer to remove them to the other end of the vast garden so that
the grownups can eat in peace, and we play scare the goldfish, catch
the ball (unsuccessful), don't throw stones at the squirrel and a lot
of "what's that?" I am happy to escape the miniature zoo when my need
for alcohol becomes too great. These adorable monsters are the greatest
demonstration I have ever seen of why you should never go paddling
without your wellies.


At seven pm, with a mass gathering of changing mats and car
seats and mutterings of "Au Pair" and "bath time", the breeders leave
and we head to the pub to reminisce and congratulate ourselves on being
more mature than the last time we did this. Momentarily I feel
comfortable again.


* * *


The following morning at six I wake to hear my sister in law
calling Europe down the big white telephone. Evidently I am to become
an Auntie. I close my eyes to blank out my hangover, and the fact that
grownups surround.


After four hours of continual chundering, Amanda emerges
broken and apologetic from the bathroom and confirms my suspicion with
a rueful smile. I congratulate her and mean it and fetch her a glass of
milk while attempting not to vomit myself.


I am not a grown up. They are. I thought I was. I thought
that replacing the toilet roll on the holder and doing the washing up
before bed was fairly grown up. Having a drawer containing napkins and
spare birthday cards and occasionally a fridge full of food, I thought
that would do it. Evidently not. I have an Espresso machine and a
blender but also a dance mat and a Starsailor cd. That is a pretend
grown up.


Soon though, I will be. Thing is, if I take a folic acid
tablet and then smoke a cigarette, I throw up, which is not nice. Or
very grown up.