Slip Sliding Away

January 04, 2012

Slip Sliding Away

Oh the horror. The abject horror of it all. The days of the benign, welcoming nappy filled with creamy brown ambrosia have been consigned to the distant past. In their stead are steaming turns of an ever increasing stench that stalk you during the day like John Malkovich - gently, oddly but with the unavoidable passion of a convert. This scatological milestone has been accompanied by other portents of time's inexorable passage - her ability to blow bubbles through increasingly bulbous cheeks (we have video proof which we will post in due course), to sit bolt upright with only the occasional fall into gravity's clutches, the ability to consume ever more food with rapacious ease and, finally, to cover anything that comes into contact with her mouth (i.e. anything that she can reach) in a fine haze of drool within seconds. Bravo Bertie - with each passing day more and more humanity seeps into you and before long you will answer must that most pressing of questions - what is the capital of Brasil?

In fact it is very hard to avoid panicking about the speed with which she is developing and before you know it you are reduced to such parental clichés as "She'll be leaving for university before you know it... Yadda yadda yadda" or find yourself mentally drafting your father of the bride speech. Egad, she is only 6 months old and I've been reduced to a quivering wreck of a man - and my mental fortitude was hardly renowned before her arrival; one article on dwindling European fish stocks is enough for a blue fog to descend. The end of Cold Mountain was enough to precipitate a full blown mental breakdown and that doesn't really have any relevance to babies at all. However, all these existential flights of nonsense are tempered by her all round delightfulness which leads me to believe that all might not be lost.

As she expands so too does the number of names used to address her. Bertie still bestrides her existence but over the Yuletide period under the watchful eye of the Rear Admiral Nugget her titles flourished. Prior to his additions, alongside Bertie there stands Bertrand (normally used with a stern, paternal voice used to convey your masterly authority over her chuddy being i.e. Bertrand, for the love of God would you please stop pissing all over the changing mat) and Bertrandella (used like Barbarella - i.e yo Bertrandella you chuddy devil) and Betrando D'Mour (to illustrate the polyglot nature of our household i.e. Qu'est qui se passe Betrando D'Mouurrrrrrrrrrrrrr, mon petit filou dans mon grande Chapeau D'Mouuuuuuuuuuuurrrrr).

To this triumvirate we can now add two additions - Bertelsmann (favoured by the Rear Admiral himself for day to day use i.e Rumpy Pumpy Bertelsmann, would you like this hammer to play with?) and Bartholomew (favoured by her Uncle, who sired the famed Lion of the North: "Guzzler Slayer of worlds") which is normally prefixed with a suitably charming sentiment (You is like so lovely, fat little Bartholomew). And to think I was castigated for wanting to use the name Mungo. Sucks Boo to you all. Oddly, however, it has become apparent that Bertie, as a female appendage, is not unique, a local Harringeyite confesses to know two other women with the nickname Bertie - which temporarily robbed me of that warm glow of specialness. It was soon restored, however, when I realised that our Bertie is clearly the best ever woman to be bestowed with such a title. Obviously. Still the whole thing is a little queer.

As ever, as a reward for those of you who bravely wade through these paragraphs of mangled nonsense I force upon you for just wanting to see pictures of Nancy Eleanor I have included some suitably peachy images of her in all her heft and glory.

Oh and Happy New Year.