I Want a Baby

“I want a baby… I'm serious,” she tells me.

We're just about to get a hot dog each from the barbecue at an ostentatious gathering, held in an old farmhouse and converted barns, transformed by new money with a nod to Posh and Becks, to celebrate the GCSE results of one of Mrs Triewly's friend's daughters.

I say nothing for a second.

“I am serious. I have been thinking about this for a while now. I want a baby.”

My thoughts run into each other like a motorway pile up: I'll be seventy when the kid is just finishing its GCSE's – Juki will be close to sixty – my health is fucked – what will we do for money – I'll have to work full time again – that nearly killed me before – sleepless nights – what if it's handicapped – I failed as a father before – I hardly see my son now, except when he wants money – the country is fucked – the world is fucking up – oil crisis – food shortages – social inequality – working your balls off just to survive – wars – tragedy – heartbreak.

“Okay, I'll see what I can do,” I respond whilst squirting some tomato ketchup onto my hotdog…