Baby + 157
The French giraffe.
This would be a good title for a story. I would be happy to write a story about a giraffe (and more than one if necessary) as this great arboreal grazer is amongst my favourite animals. Until I do write this story, I should explain that the French giraffe is not French, but rather a donation from our daughter's maternal aunt and uncle. He may, of course, be from that great European nation, but I suspect his origin is more likely a Chinese warehouse.
His progeny to one side, the French giraffe has become an indispensable part of the bedtime ritual here. Thanks to some handy straps he is fixed to the side of the cot. He has a large wheel which, when turned, produces a very soothing ditty. This seems to do wonders for our daughter's nerves (she fights sleep hard). Like Mr Donk Donk, I suspect that the French giraffe will eventually cease to make a noise. But for now he is a key member of the parenting team. Thank you family.
(I was told the other week that some giraffes have only seven vertebrae. This strikes me as possibly implausible, but still remarkable.)
I visited the Peter Jones coffee shop for the first time today. We were meeting a long standing friend who was over for the weekend from New York (a journey that used to have cache, but perhaps is now all too common to warrant comment). He was on his own, which immediately distinguished him from the multitude of baby-bearing couples.
To say that the place was awash with bambinos would be to understate the scale of the parenting operation taking place. It was not possible to obtain a coffee for the queue of mothers wanting hot water for baby bottles. A few, brave elderly couples sipped tea, but such was the polarised age distribution that we could have been in the A&E department of any major hospital. Anyone in his or her forties would sat squarely in the centre of this numerical range.
It would not have been odd had John Wayne marched in and ordered the parents and their assembled baby kit into action - "climb aboard the waiting buggies kids and prepare to liberate Europe". The engineering on show was phenomenal. I tend to assume we have a rather modest pushchair, and lined up against some of the armour-plated strollers today I felt vindicated in this view. The more elaborate contraptions have space for at least a week's supply of baby sundries (nappies, food, flasks etc.), possibly two or three labradors, and are fitted with a towing line should the family 4x4 get into trouble. I imagine that many garages have been extended, many second homes purchased, to accommodate these monsters.
Reviewing the scene again at Peter Jones, with all the babies and pushchairs, I am reminded of that part of Arizona where they mothball planes. Perhaps this is Peter Jones's function: a great landing strip for London's offspring.
This would be a good title for a story. I would be happy to write a story about a giraffe (and more than one if necessary) as this great arboreal grazer is amongst my favourite animals. Until I do write this story, I should explain that the French giraffe is not French, but rather a donation from our daughter's maternal aunt and uncle. He may, of course, be from that great European nation, but I suspect his origin is more likely a Chinese warehouse.
His progeny to one side, the French giraffe has become an indispensable part of the bedtime ritual here. Thanks to some handy straps he is fixed to the side of the cot. He has a large wheel which, when turned, produces a very soothing ditty. This seems to do wonders for our daughter's nerves (she fights sleep hard). Like Mr Donk Donk, I suspect that the French giraffe will eventually cease to make a noise. But for now he is a key member of the parenting team. Thank you family.
(I was told the other week that some giraffes have only seven vertebrae. This strikes me as possibly implausible, but still remarkable.)
I visited the Peter Jones coffee shop for the first time today. We were meeting a long standing friend who was over for the weekend from New York (a journey that used to have cache, but perhaps is now all too common to warrant comment). He was on his own, which immediately distinguished him from the multitude of baby-bearing couples.
To say that the place was awash with bambinos would be to understate the scale of the parenting operation taking place. It was not possible to obtain a coffee for the queue of mothers wanting hot water for baby bottles. A few, brave elderly couples sipped tea, but such was the polarised age distribution that we could have been in the A&E department of any major hospital. Anyone in his or her forties would sat squarely in the centre of this numerical range.
It would not have been odd had John Wayne marched in and ordered the parents and their assembled baby kit into action - "climb aboard the waiting buggies kids and prepare to liberate Europe". The engineering on show was phenomenal. I tend to assume we have a rather modest pushchair, and lined up against some of the armour-plated strollers today I felt vindicated in this view. The more elaborate contraptions have space for at least a week's supply of baby sundries (nappies, food, flasks etc.), possibly two or three labradors, and are fitted with a towing line should the family 4x4 get into trouble. I imagine that many garages have been extended, many second homes purchased, to accommodate these monsters.
Reviewing the scene again at Peter Jones, with all the babies and pushchairs, I am reminded of that part of Arizona where they mothball planes. Perhaps this is Peter Jones's function: a great landing strip for London's offspring.
posted by Jonathan McMahon at 9:32 PM
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