12 December 2006
Clean and Serene. Betty Ford comes to Walthamstow
The Preamble
Well now, I’ve polished my shoes, coiffed my hair (it didn’t take long), dug out last year’s wedding suit, and even donned a quite alarming baby pink tie (us new men, eh!). The reason? It’s christening time for newly minted daughter.
The priest with the scary eyebrows, the one who married us last year, has had his arm twisted. He’s been re-assured that despite his original concerns that;
- A. I am a feckless layabout with no intention of providing for myself, let alone a wife and baby daughter.
- B. I shouldn’t be bringing my observations on Soho life, gambling and tortoise racing into a house of God.
...he would in fact, be more than happy to welcome little Gracie into the club. He’s probably hoping that mother’s genes, personality, looks, money and overall good-egg-ness rub off. Better that than the alternative.
The Day
Godparents? Chosen. Cab. Booked? Baby? In situ. Christening gown? Forgotten. Oh. Can we head back to Walthamstow please Mr nice cabbie? Ta. A grand crowd of ne’er do wells turn up at Church, it’s a Sunday and I detect a fair sprinkling of hangovers among the finery, these of course belong to our friends. Family attend in sober, good humoured style. Surprisingly, it all goes without a hitch. Gracie is well behaved; New Dad does the honours in style. Well, without tripping over the altar anyway.
Worryingly though, The Godfather theme plays throughout New Dad’s head during the service. Do you promise to… hmmm was it Mo green or Bruno Tatalia? Do you renounce…. Was it was sonny on the causeway or Bondzini? Focus. FOCUS. Oh, yes of course we will. Away from thoughts of Scorsese and Tarantino, it all goes swimmingly.
The pub calls, as is its wont. Gracie and some of her new pals fall asleep. After several slaps on the back and rounds of ginger ale, New Dad feels the same. Ah. Isn’t life grand?
Postcript:
Heh heh , New Dad thinks, I’ve got this licked. Small One is now a member. Good school beckons in a few years. Cunning. Fox-like, forward thinking. Clever Dad.
Postcript 2:
Football cancelled due to being roped into church collection. Oh dear, I appear to have been rumbled.
Next Time: The folly of Santa outfits, and other stuff