My friend had a baby, and gave it to me for a bit. I was walking about happily talking to her when I bumped into another friend. ‘I didn’t know you liked babies,’ He said. I stared at him, and continued to hold the baby. ‘I mean,’ He continued. ‘You never talk about babies.’ ‘There are lots of things I like that I don’t talk about,’ I replied sensibly. ‘It just wouldn’t be appropriate’.
I looked down fondly at the little baby I was holding. You may think all babies are little, but some babies are so huge and hulking that you simply cannot help but glance wincingly at their mothers’ front bottoms when you are introduced to them. (The babies. Hardly anyone introduces me to their front bottoms). I myself, according to my own Mother, was stupendously fat as a baby. Naturally this is entirely untrue, and I was born perfectly perfect. (‘Perfectly perfect’ is a phrase I have just made up, but I feel it has great commercial potential, possibly as a slogan for a make-up range, the seller grinning with manic irony as they push their elixirs and potions onto women, telling them at the same time that they are ‘perfectly perfect’).
Anyway, I had a lovely time with my friend’s baby. We discussed the likelihood of Ryan Gosling being usurped by a younger, hotter thing (practically impossible), the correct way to eat an Oreo (with your teeth, as they come), and the gap in the market for a portable nap-sack (this is a bag, into which you lie if you wish to take a nap. Punny name provided by me, commitment to napping provided by me and the baby).
For pleasant conversations, interesting business ideas and receiving smiles from strangers, babies are perfectly perfect.