Good evening Negative Soundbyters! It's a longer anecdote this evening so no intro.
Big Love
Hoddy X
Rugby at the pub.
Meeting the boys down at the local for a few beers and some big screen action used to be a relatively straight forward affair; arrive, shake hands, order, sit, drink, remonstrate (this happens a lot as a Springbok supporter), drink some more (often the only way to deal with the pain of being a Springbok supporter), check out the talent (in the days before Mrs H ) and have another drink (rejection and being a Springbok supporter go hand-in-hand!)….
Now it’s become a little more complicated.
Case-in-point this past Saturday.
My mate calls me up and says “how about some rugby down at the pub?” (Men keep it nice and simple). I said “yes, what sort of time?”; he said “around two” and I was “sounds good, see you there.”
I hadn’t actually asked Mrs H; sometimes it’s better just to inform so I dropped into a conversation that Alex (our neighbour) had invited me to the rugby. An invitation is hard to turn down. Mrs H: “That’s fine but I have already arranged to see the girls so you will have to take Rafe….” I was like: “Yikes! Are you sure you can’t take him with you….” Mrs H: “No.”
Virgin territory this. Me and my 6-month-old navigating a busy bar in the world’s largest - and most comfortable – pram, trying to duck under screens, avoid sloshy pints all the while ensuring that I did not miss any of the appointed feeding times and that he had a nice clean bum! This scenario did not fill me with glee, but then again this was good father-son bonding time even though he couldn’t drink or check out the talent.
“You can do this Hoddy,” I told myself.
So Saturday afternoon swings round and I have to start getting prepared. Gone are the days of just walking out of the house and closing the door behind you. It was like preparing for a special forces mission, minus the rifle and camouflage paint. Mrs H allowed me to use my day pack to put all Rafe’s paraphernalia in but not before we did a full inventory check together so that I was clear on what I was supposed to use when, especially when it came to his food. Nothing was left to chance.
Finally we were ready to depart. By this time Rafe was beginning to yawn and I thought if we time this right I could get the first half in before he wakes up. An early win for Hoddy!
I met my mate outside his house; I reckon he did an inward double-take; “Big call bringing a baby to the pub on match day”. He didn’t say it but we both knew this could become a proper hack, especially if it was jammed. I had started to sweat slightly even though it was zero degrees. Rafe was asleep; ignorance is bliss…
We arrived at the pub and conditions could not have been better. Alex had arranged a perfect viewing spot with enough room to park up and unload. It wasn’t busy, I wasn’t in anybody’s way, Rafe was snoring gently, the beer was cold and the screen was big. It felt like a Mastercard moment. I settled into my armchair and began to relax and enjoy the game.
Um no. Tear up the Mastercard.
No sooner had the game kicked off than I heard a little grunt from the pram and two hands appeared. I could have passed off the grunt as background noise and ignored it, but there was no way I could avoid the hands, which by now had started flapping about; Rafe’s signal for attention. I put my beer down, looked under the hood of the pram and there were these two blue saucers staring back at me – and a big gummy smile. “Entertain me New Dad…”
So I hauled him out of the pram and sat him on my lap or tried to. Rafe prefers to stand which is hard when he actually can’t stand, but he likes to practice by making himself as stiff as a board and because he’s quite tall for a six-month-old he will look out and survey what’s around him, while I support him with two hands and look at the back of his head. This meant that neither could I hold my pint or see the screen.
Eventually he got tired of that and I put him back in his pram but only on the proviso that I entertained him with the toys that I had bought with me. Needless-to-say I spent more time retrieving various plastic animals that Rafe launched from the pram than tending to my now lukewarm beer. The rugby was becoming a distant memory.
Rafe has developed this new call-sign; it sounds like an egret with a raspy cough calling to its mate – a strangled screech you might say. Anyway tired of the toys, Rafe began calling to his mate. This did not combine that easily with the commentary nor with my fellow patrons, so I had to make an executive call; maybe if he eats that will distract him. The routine was in tatters but I was in trouble.
Mrs H had given me explicit instructions about the flask and how to make up his food so that it would be nice and warm when the time came. I thought I had followed her instructions to the letter but when I opened the flask the pureed chicken-and-vegetable lunch was stone cold. I was like – this is not good. But I thought that maybe Rafe wouldn’t notice – he’s a baby. Um no.
I put some on his plastic spoon, enticed him to open his mouth and plopped it in. His reaction said it all. Out shot the cold pureed chicken, his face scrunched into a very tight red ball, and the strangled egret began calling to all parts of Streatham. The afternoon was unravelling faster than a kitten and a ball of yarn. Rugby and beer were now a memory buried in a galaxy far, far away. My brow was wet. It was time to beat a hasty retreat.
Thankfully Alex has a mini so he understood (he probably didn’t because if the roles had been reversed I would have been like: “Dude..really??”) and he helped me load up the pram with the egret in full cry. I weaved Rafe between bar stools and patrons until finally we hit the pavement out of harm’s way!
I offered Alex the second half at my spot which he took me up on so we made our way back to the homestead stopping in at a craft beer shop for supplies; I needed a strong beer to calm my nerves. One of our party wasn’t stressed out all. No sooner had we left the shop than I heard a soft gurgle from beneath the pram hood. I wondered if this was part deux, but instead the little man was fast asleep – chilled as a cucumber, egrets a distant memory!
Now that’s a Mastercard moment!
Out :)
Pic of the Week
Cracking afternoon at the pub...
