The Orangutan's Daughter

So here's the deal. I've been thinking long and hard and have decided to cut down the amount of time I waltz through the blogosphere. With the demands of my job, the tiring little monster baby, and the realisation that I just don't make enough time to discover new wines watch The Wire read and relax, it's time to make cuts.

So I'm going to aim to post once a week, probably on a Monday, and keep Monday as my blogging day. This'll mean that I won't be visiting your lovely blogs with my usual regularity during the rest of the week, but at the start of the week I will be your man. In other words, I will continue to exercise the standard protocol of blogging reciprocity, but I won't be about so much. I just wanted to let you know - in case you are sitting in your armchair on a Thursday night, drinking some cheap Scandinavian lager and thinking "where the hell is Mo?". Anyway, I don't want to dwell on this so without further ado...

We went for a late breakfast at our favourite cafe. Favourite because of the food and atmosphere, not because of the layout, which is worse than my parents' living room. Imagine a tiny room stuffed with ten mismatching sofas. That aside, the food is divine and the mushrooms, well, the mushrooms are simply spectacular.

I had mushrooms on toast, my wife had a crayfish sandwich. Bubba trumped everyone with her organic
"roast dinner" purée. A young girl scampered in, closely followed by her mum and (presumably) grandma. They sat at the table next to ours. The mum was clad in what can only be described as a tiny black party frock. Very short, very revealing. She wore wedges so high they would have been beyond the wildest dreams of any ski-jumping Lego man.

Most remarkable of all was the colour of her skin. It was so orange that you would naturally assume her father was an Orangutan. Either that or she had fallen into a vat of fake tan cream. Oranges and lemons,
say the bells of St. Clement's.

She sat close to Bubba, emitting a powerful orange glow. While thoroughly enjoying her purée, Bubba was becoming increasingly interested in Mrs Satsuma, her little grubby hands swinging dangerously close. "You're hoping Bubba grabs that lady," observed my wife. "That would be ideal," I replied.

An elderly lady sat down at our table. Ignoring the countless unoccupied tables, she was merely exercising those rights that all old ladies believe they have - the right to invade the privacy of anyone with a baby, the right to touch any baby with grubby opal-ringed fingers, the right to act as a sort of "proxy grandma" to any baby encountered.

"She doesn't want to eat, she wants to socialise," said Bubba's new proxy grandma. "The only person wanting to socialise is you," I thought, tired of prying strange elderly hands off our baby and desperately hoping that Bubba would eat up quick.

As Lady Clementine got up to leave a small grubby hand swiped at her frock. She didn't notice and left the cafe, a delightful little orange hand print adorning her bum, the "roast dinner" purée perfectly matching the colour of her skin. It was ideal.

The Modern Man and the Glass Eye

The bar was staffed by an elderly lady who looked exactly like I imagine Miss Marple. She was wearing a whopping great monster of a ring, a silver behemoth with a glass eye instead of a stone. I had a feeling the glass eye was watching me.

"Two pints of Sussex Best," I said.

"Sorry, what did you say?" she asked.

"Two pints of Sussex Best," I repeated.

She only filled one pint.

"Excuse me, I asked for two pints," I clarified.

"Sorry, what did you say?" she asked.

It was tempting to suggest she should have worn a ring with an ear, not an eye, but I refrained. I eventually walked away with two pints.

My wife and her mother were out shopping, leaving Steve and I to look after Bubba Stoneskin. That suited us fine, we'd rather look after the baby than be dragged round the shops for hours upon hours. We took Bubba down the airfield to drink beer and watch the planes. Steve and I that is, not the Bubba, she doesn't like beer and isn't interested in planes.

We hadn't been there long before Bubba needed her nappy changing. I was tempted to change her out on the windswept airfield took her indoors. I asked Miss Marple if there was a changing mat in the gents' toilet.

"Sorry, what did you say?" she asked, sunlight glinting off the glass eye.

"Is there a changing mat in the gents' toilet?" I asked.

She shook her head forlornly and suggested I used the disabled toilet.

"More space in there," she suggested helpfully, pointing in the general direction of the disabled loo. I swear the glass eye winked at me. I wandered off with the crying Bubba, the glass eye's steely gaze piecing me from behind.

The disabled toilet was occupied, but standing in the doorway of the ladies' was another old dear.

"You can use the changing mat in here," she said. "I'll stay here and make sure you don't get into trouble." This seemed an excellent idea at the time. I had an audience - her daughter and granddaughter were inside. I didn't mind. It was a chance to demonstrate that I, the culmination of the evolution of the modern man, could change a nappy quicker than you could say "Sausage and Egg McMuffin".

The problem was the alignment of the changing mat. Instead of allowing me to stand at her feet I had to stand at her side. Changing the nappy wasn't an issue, but from that angle getting her little baby tights back on was surprisingly tricky. Meanwhile my audience was growing. Ladies were coming in but no-one was leaving, they were all captured by the spectacle. Bubba cooed, grinned and giggled. I sweated like a Turkish wrestler. After what seemed like years I was finished, I carried Bubba out with my tail hanging low. Mad Dog had been defeated. Bubba looked like she had been dressed by a monkey.

You could have said "Sausage and Egg McMuffin" twelve million times. I blame the glass eye.