Free This Could Be Rock 'N' Roll by Tim Roux Page A

dancing down Victoria Ave?
    Obviously, it’s nice to spend time with Jade but not all the time. I have my writing to do and I keep being distracted by Harry.
    Jade keeps asking me about pregnancy and what is normal. Should she feel as bad as this? Cathy didn’t - she sailed through. Should she be talking to baby? What exercises should she be doing (on the couch?)? Should she be watching noisy quiz shows (never!)? Would baby like gardening programmes? Do I really have to go and play this gig in Grimsby (as if I haven’t repeatedly been asking myself the same question)?
    The trouble is that I’ve totally forgotten what having a baby is like. I even forgot between Josh and Sam being born and that was only two years.
    I can tell you that NCT is a complete waste of time, especially the moment when they attach a bloody great falsy to your front and say that this is what pregnancy is like, and would I mind imagining squeezing out a nine pound turd? I can also tell you that whatever resolutions you make in the quiet of your paper and pencil haven get torn up once you register yourselves into the hospital and the doctor and nurses take over. It is all “If you don’t do this, everyone will die, the baby will be malformed, disaster will happen!” and all you can say is “OK. We are in your hands.” I can also remember that the birth itself is beautiful and that you hold this tiny living creature in wonderment while your wife is thinking “Shit, what do I do now?”, and that after three years everything is OK again. That’s it. There will be a lot of discussion as to whether you should buy enviro-friendly washable nappies or those polyprop things that are raising Britain another one thousand feet above sea level and then, if you go for the disposables, whether Pampers, Huggies or supermarket own are best. Then there is the whole breast feeding bit and the role of baby foods, organic or toxic, and what sort of baby gyms you should have and, at that point, I rekindle my interest in football which has never been great. I’m a Hull City supporter after all, about once every fifteen years.
    I cannot believe the amount of decision making you have to get involved with over the welfare of a creature which is destined to grow come what may so long as it is born in Britain. It will eat when it wants to, it will shit when it wants to, it will learn to talk, it will learn to read, it will try to cheat the other kids in the school yard and it will end up working some shit job either for a slave wage or a king’s ransom according to its ambitions. But the way everybody tells it, it is like every decision you make could blight every aspect of its future existence. Eating rusks - that’s it, it will never get to Cambridge. Fever - that’s it, it will spontaneously combust. If you don’t do the inoculations, it will not only die of every disease going in sequence but it will also decimate the entire population. Yeah, of course it will.
    So first-borns really suffer. They get all the should-do crap and feel they have to be captains of industry and the rest are let off the hook because what was critical first time around is suddenly a bit of a chore. I can see Jade going exactly that way. She has read the first three pages of every baby guide book going - she feels nauseous after that and has to have a little nap.
    So, when Harry calls in amid all this excitement I am decidedly peeved. However, this particular knock on the door isn’t Harry but his better half, Cathy.
    “Hello,” I greet her in total shock.
    “Hi, Jake.”
    “What are you doing here?” It is meant to sound surprised but it probably comes over as closer to hostile.
    “I’ve come to see Jade, to see if I can help.”
    I am speechless so I simply hold the door open for her and she squeezes through under my arm and enters the sitting room shyly. “Hello.”
    “Hi,” says the kiss-me-Hardy voice rising from the couch.
    “Can I come in?”
    “Yeah. Make yourself at