Went to a crap concert on the South Bank last night....well not crap so much as just not my thing- we expected experimental jazz and we got something akin to incidental music from a BBC Sunday evening drama of the 1980s.
Anyway, that's not the point. The point, such as it is, was that my gig-going friend and myself were chatting in the bar having refused to go back in for the second half of the show and we started making tentative plans for the missus and I to see my friend and his wife in their new house in the country.
I finished the conversation with "Well we'd better get this sorted while we can, becasue it'll be a right pain in the arse to venture down to you come September..." This is especially apposite to my friend and his wife who are child-free and, it's fair to say, have been something of a role model couple to us in living a lifestyle full of art, culture, music and campaigning politics.
And at that point I had a moment of realisation... my life in its present form really is going to end soon. It's not hit me that much so far because the idea of being a dad is still so hypothetical. We're no longer going to be able to live our lives to our own heart's desire, going anywhere will require intricate planning and pin-sharp project management... and time to ourselves? Fuhgeddaboudit!
Regular gig-going? You can forget that too, buster. Disappearing off for evenings of fun and frolics while the missus grapples with dirty nappies to the soundtrack of ear-splitting crying is likely to make me about as popular as a pork pie at a Bar Mitzvah.
Oh well, I've had a spectacularly good innings. For Christ's sake I'm almost 40! What I haven't managed to do by now I'll probably never be able to afford anyway, sprog or no sprog....
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