JJ and the Baby Thing.

I saw a young man and woman in the town today, pushing a buggy with a baby, appropriately supine, contained therein. They stopped a couple of times and fiddled with the plastic cover and the blankets, ensuring with commendable diligence that the little proto-human was as warm, dry and comfortable as babies have a right to be. It gave me a lift. It seemed a rare example of something right and proper in this absurd existence we humans live out for heaven-knows-what purpose.

And then there were two women standing talking, one of whom was carrying a little girl of maybe 12-15 months. The child and I exchanged glances, and the glances became longer stares, and I resorted to my very best Stan Laurel impression, and the kid smiled.

What is this connection I seem to have developed with babies over the last year or so? Dogs and horses I understand, but babies?

I remember being a baby, you know. I remember the feeling of delighted expectation when my mother approached with a spoon and a jar of Virol. (Virol was a brown paste consisting mainly of malt extract, although I learned only tonight that it also contained a little refined beef fat. I wasn’t a vegetarian in those days, much to my eternal shame, and I get my daily dose of beloved malt extract from quite a different source now.) I also remember the feeling of extreme annoyance when something I was being fed with a spoon dripped off my bottom lip and my mother scooped it up. I distinctly remember moving my head about – and probably making the odd unearthly noise or two – in the hope of circumventing the operation, and I remember feeling doubly irritated when the drips still got scooped. It probably explains my lifelong suspicion of women and things that drip.

And do you know that I haven’t met the Lady B’s little daughter yet? I’m told that she doesn’t have her mother’s eyes, but she does have her mother’s temperament. I didn’t enquire further, but I assume there’s reason to hope that another earthworm rescuer will soon be joining the ranks.