Victorian Values

(Previously: We're on our way round to babysit for some strangers. Naturally.)

“What sort of name is ‘Nan’ anyway?” I ask V as we walk round to India and Malcolm’s house. “I had a nan called ‘Nan’ but she was about 93 in 1975.”

“I know,” she sighs. "The whole, ridiculous Victoriana thing. I never get why the girls all sound like purse-lipped spinsters - Nan, Ida, Ina, Ena - while the boys all sound like chimney sweeps and match sellers. Ernie, Harry, Jack, Bert, Alf."

"Ernie?" I laugh.

"Seriously. I work with someone who has called their son Ernie."

"He has years of pain ahead of him."

"Years of being called the Fastest Milkman in the West."

"Exactly. Although I suppose I shouldn’t criticise, given that my name is in fact Victoria.”

“That’s different though.”

“Yes. Yes it is. I think there should be some sort of law... no, maybe a decree... ”

"A by-law?"

"Yes. By-law seems appropriate. I think there should be a by-law insisting that if you're going to name a kid  like it was 1899, you go the whole hog. Don't fanny around."

"What do you mean?"

"Hardcore Victorian names must be utilised. Like Fanny, for example."

I burst out laughing. "Fanny?"

"Why not?" shrugs V. "Perfectly reasonable name. We're not all as smutty and juvenile as you."

"Come on! Fanny? Is Fanny coming out tonight?' 'Yes, it's always a pleasure to see Fanny."

V ignores my considered logic. "And why not Cecil, or Gertrude, or Myrtle, or Ambrose, or Clement, or Ulysses?" she asks.

"Interesting. You should your by-law idea to Ken Livingstone."

"Perhaps I will."

"Tell you what. Let's have a baby as soon as possible."

"Okay! I'm in!"

"One condition. If it's a girl, we call her Fanny."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Perfectly reasonable name, I thought."

"Agh! You're such a dick sometimes."

We continue in silence across the combined municipal mini-park/dangerous dog showground.

“Where exactly do Malcolm and India live anyway?” I ask.

“They have a house by the park.”

“They have a house?”

"All to themselves?"

“Yeah,” sighs V. "I know."

People who own entire houses in London have become like superheroes to us.

“They must be doing bloody well financially,” I venture, “Especially with a Nan to raise. Because, you know, obviously children are very expensive, particularly in London. For a few years there are nappies, then playgroup… then it’s all about school clothes – even school fees if you’re in a bad area, like we are. Toys, birthday party presents, danger on the streets, guns, drug dealers, new prams, bigger car, the list goes on.”

“I get it,” snaps V. “You don’t have to bother with the anti-baby spiel. I’m pre-menstrual. I’m more likely to beat you to death with a tyre iron than force you to have sex with me in the hope that I’ll get pregnant.”

We continue round to India and Malcolm’s in silence.

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