Warning: Not for the weak of stomach

I was up to my eyeballs yesterday what with making a shopping list, reading blogs and generally avoiding work when the mobile rang. I grunted my displeasure and frowned at it, but being a cheap Huawei import it has difficulty understanding western social norms and kept ringing. I had to answer it. It was Kathy inviting me out to lunch. Well that was okay then. Very pleasant in fact. As we all know, doing lunch is a 100% legitimate excuse to avoid work. And of course she would have the wee man, Oisín, with her. At just 3½ months old he’s already becoming an individual in his own right with his likes and dislikes, big gummy smiles, eyes that follow everything that moves, little fisted hands that rub his eyes when tired. Mighty craic all together.

Now those of you who are mums or dads will know that the SAS, climbers on Everest and Arctic explorers have it easy - they have damn all supplies and equipment to carry compared to the parent of a baby. When picking a lunch venue you need one with space. Preferably big couches to rest the baby-carrier or to lay the child down on and room for bag(s) with nappies, wipes, creams, soothers, bottles, spare bibs, clothes, shovels, rakes and implements of destruction. The list is endless.

I was commended on my choice. It ticked all the boxes apparently. We chatted away over a lovely lunch all the while being checked on by the staff who were really making up excuses to ooh and aah at Oisín. It never ceases to amaze me how people, even the grumpiest of old men, turn into blubbering idiots in the presence of a baby.

Coffees arrived and an unrequested jug of hot water in case we needed to warm a bottle. Which we did. I was impressed with the service.

I fed himself while Kathy slipped to the loo. On her return she moaned that they were tiny with no room next the wash hand basins to comfortably, or safely, change a child and obviously no fold down contraption for the job. Then inspiration hit her - a quick check and his nappy was just damp. I’ll slip a new one on discretely where we are. That’s a runner, I figured. The crowd had all gone and we were in an alcove hidden from view.

Just as the fresh one was being slipped on there was an almighty explosion and the proverbial hit the fan. Well not totally true. It hit everything except the fan as there wasn’t one. But it would have if there was. Now I’ve had the hottest curries in my day and ended up with an arse like the Japanese flag, but never like this. Good f*ck! This happens once a day, explained Kathy. Like clockwork at 4 in the afternoon. It must have come early as he’s on extra feed since today.

Just then I noticed, well more sensed, one of the staff approaching. I jumped up on my hind legs and intercepted him. Ah, there ya are now, Derek. Ya have the bill with ya. Good man, I’ll get ya on the way back. Just have to nip to the mens. I hovered at the door for a minute or two then returned. Kathy gave me the Iarnród Éireann line - we’re not there yet, but we’re getting there.

Derek was making his way over again. With a cloth in his hand. I grabbed the coffee mugs, pulled a wipe from the baby bag, cleared down the table and made intercept number two. There ya go now, Derek. All done.

Ah thanks, Primal. There’s a job here for ya any day. Want to settle up now? I stalled and made like I couldn’t find the bill. He ran off a copy. I glanced at Kathy shaking her head vigorously. It looked like Oisín was sorted and she was working on the (luckily PVC) couch. Oh, I think this isn’t right. We didn’t have coffees did we? Derek looked at me sideways. But shur you just handed me the empties. Bad stall, Primal - 1 out of 10 - must work harder. I glanced at Kathy now sitting back looking flushed but smiling. Or trying to. Oh, yeah we did. Yer right. I paid and we left.

At the car she remembered her handbag. I went back in. Derek met with it at the door. It must be something in the air today, Primal. You forgot the coffees. Her ladyship forgot her bag. And I forgot to tell ya we have a new baby changing room down the hallway.

All the media carried news of the EU’s decision to abandon plans to finally end the use of imperial measurements. It was lauded as a victory for the so called Metric Martyrs in the UK. (Surely that should be Imperial Martyrs as that is their cause not the metric system. Who ever heard of Roman Martyrs being fed to the lions because they were Christian?)

The Diageo were delighted too - the pubs can continue to serve pints of Guinness. The UK can keep their road signs in miles. Gold can still be traded in troy ounces.

It is important to note that this ruling applies to no other unit of measurement. The UK can still print 1 lb on their butter packaging but must also show the metric equivalent. I have not found an article that mentions acres and hectares but I assume the story is the same. Not that any estate agent uses what we call packaging when selling land. They use other ways and means.

The Irish Independent seemed overjoyed at the news although they regretfully admitted it was too late for Ireland to revert back to miles on road signs. (I’ll post the link tomorrow - the Indo make searching yesterday’s paper all but impossible unless the piece you want is in the most-read or most-emailed bracket).

So overjoyed was the Independent that they lost the run of themselves. Another article was on the heart-warming story of two-year-old Giedrute Kaledaite who travelled 25 miles as a stowaway on board a bus before being detected and reunited with her parents. I’m sure the Kaledienes, who are originally from Lithuania, had to whip out their calculator to understand just how far their daughter had journeyed.

Now high as a kite on imperial measurements, the Independent ran a piece about how Irish teenagers are taller and fatter than their predecessors. The average 14-year-old boy is now four stone heavier than his grandfather weighed when he was the same age, it reported. And while their grandfather in 1948 had an average height of 4ft 9ins, today’s 14-year-old stands at around 5ft 6ins tall. What teen reading this would have the slightest clue how heavy 4 stone is or how tall 5ft 6ins is? If the message to teens is about obesity then it will not get through using imperial measurements.

All of us under the age of 42 or so were schooled in the metric system. We were never taught about stones, pounds and ounces. We wouldn’t know how many yards or feet there are in a mile.

We do have a sense of how long a mile is having having had road signs in that unit until recent times. We know what a pint is for obvious reasons. Some of us may have been apprenticed to a tradesman who insisted we use feet and inches. Some may have lived in the UK and US and had to adopt to their measurements. But most under 40’s do not have a solid grasp of imperial measurement.

The Irish Independent needs to realise that, EU decision or not, metric is the statutory standard of this country. By using imperial that newspaper is alienating it’s readers.

UPDATE: Sex: Male. Weight: 3.9kg. Name: Oisín. Rank: Brigadier General. Serial Number: 17082007KE

I’m in Kathy’s. They phoned me to come over at 4:00. And they were on the road to the baby-factory at 4:30. So the waiting is either over or just beginning depending on what way you look at it.

Either way, Kathy is smiling through it. She nearly cried when the specialist mentioned inducing the baby. She won’t have to go through that now. And there’s no worry about traffic. This time of the morning is what the estate agents go by when advertising property - Only 40 minutes from Dublin. Easy access to the M50. All true at 4:00 in the morning.

I’ll update you during the day when I get news. Well, there’ll be one update with sex, weight, name, rank and serial number. This is not a Twitter type thing.

The only part of the plan going awry is the mural project. Seán lost patience and started on his own last weekend. So the materials have been confiscated.

We’ll just have to think of something else.

There are some things in this world you never see. Like an ugly baby or a small rat. Our upbringing dictates that we squeal oh, (s)he’s gorgeous and jayzez, it’s feking huge respectively. The exception, of course, is a baby rat.

As I wrote in Snippets #9 below, my great friend Kathy is expecting her second - not rat, the other one - on Wednesday and I am on call to take care of her first, Seán, while she does the whole grunt, deep breath, push, scream thing. Then, when she has her bag packed and heads off to the hospital, for whatever she has to do there, Seán and I can get to work on that kitchen wall mural he’s been planning. He has been thinking about it for weeks now - he sits on the floor for long periods with a crayon in each hand, with one eye on the wall and one on his mum. I’m guessing he wants it to be a surprise. No point making a start while she’s watching.

I’m looking forward to the project, but the waiting is killing me. Not least because we’ve just had a long weekend and being art-director-on-call I couldn’t risk a single beer. Ireland may have had the wettest weekend on record/CD/DVD/Download but I certainly had the driest.

Now before anyone jumps down my throat about all the worry daddy is going through, let me point out it was all his doing. I didn’t have it in for him, so to speak.

To exacerbate things, all the lovely-baby doctors swore on their stethoscopes that Kathy would be anything up to a week early. (They obviously never arranged to meet her for lunch). Hence I’ve had my crayons in the boot of the car since the middle of last week.

I’ve had the phone on tone and vibrate at night in case I sleep through the call to arts. And it’s kept fully charged. Some meetings have been rescheduled as they are too far away. An overnight case is packed. I continually check there’s plenty of fuel in the tank.

Kathy is wondering who is actually having the baby.

Well I suppose it will all be worth it the day I get to blubber oh, (s)he’s gorgeous. It can’t be long now - I seen a rat down by the river yesterday and jayzez, it was feking huge.

With no kids of my own, I seem to have fallen into the role of surrogate uncle for some of my friends’ offspring. Birthday cards and bills for furniture damaged while babysitting come addressed to Uncle Primal. I’m proud of this. Not many parents would leave their kids in the care of a non-family member these days. Especially a male.

With each family concerned, the real uncles do the birthday present and play in the garden kind of things, but always seem to have something more pressing to do when asked to babysit for any length of time that might involve feeding or changing. They have to defrag their hard-drives or whatever. Having worked in a warehouse my experience of goods-in and goods-out qualifies me eminently and makes me the uber-uncle.

Being a surrogate uncle also results in having surrogate brothers and sisters. Mainly sisters. Dad’s tell me that my nephew or niece has learned how to use the DVD. Mums tell me the wee one has a cold and will need an array of medicines administered pre-bedtime. And which ones will be swallowed gladly and which will be sprayed back at me - The stuff I need to know.

In two months, the bestest of these sisters is having her second child. I will be an uncle again. Or maybe an aunt - They don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl. Now if kids are the funniest creatures on the planet, pregnant mums run a close second. Well this one anyway.

Cathy is one of those high flying executive types who controls an organisation of 200 employees like the rest of us use a TV remote. But at the first sign of the bump the dizziness kicks in.

Once a week or so I get a call: Hiya! Listen, I’m too embarrassed to ring himself - what’s the alarm code for our house?

One morning she rang me at 8:20: Can ya do me a big fav? I’m in the carpark at work. Seán is still in the car with me - I drove straight by the crèche and forgot to drop him off. I’ve a meeting in 15mins and can’t leave. And himself is in Paris this week. Can you come get him? Oh God, I’m a terrible mother! You won’t tell anyone will ya? Now stop that. You’re a great mum. And it’s not as if I’d blog about it now would I? Ah, thanks, Primal. You’re a pet. Oh, and while you’re at the crèche could you pop by the house - I think I left the door open.

On Saturday evening, Seán and I were sitting on the floor busily dismantling some kitchen appliance or other when I noticed Cathy was wearing sunglasses. It’s lashing rain out - where are ya going with them yokes on? Oh, they’ll be grand. They’re prescription ones. I lost my proper glasses in London last week. The proper glasses that are sitting over there on top of the telly? Oh. Eh, do you think the optician would let me cancel the new ones? Get them anyway so you have a spare pair. I’ll mind them for ya until ya need them. Monday probably.

Cathy left for her girls night out and Seán and myself rummaged about for the next appliance needing our attention. She was back two minutes later. I forgot my list. I need to get a few things on the way home. I thought you were in the shop earlier. So that’s why there’s no milk in the fridge? I was in the shop. I got everything, paid for it, got my change and walked away leaving it all on the counter. Hold on, milk wasn’t on the list. I’ll add it now. You might make that Milk of Amnesia.