The Churchillian Connection

Lucy modelling the Autumnwear collection from Mothercare. Cigar range and teat suitable from 3 months +




On good days (when I can still feel my nipples and have managed to prize Lucy away from her cherished Norris Mcquirter Annual), my daughter and I sometimes make it along to the local baby music group.

To say there's an odd eclecticism about these gatherings would be, well, something of an understatement. They're a bit like going to your first ever non-school disco: you're there with a complete mish-mash of people all gagging for a healthy slug of 20-20 to ease things along. Then you realise there's no way they'll serve you at that time of day, and all you've really got to play with is a load of crap music and, um, babies.

In my group, the Barely Teenage mothers sit in one corner; a cliche of government statistics dripping in oversized trainers and 9 carat hair gel, with each pore straining for a sneaky fag as soon as the strange woman with the guitar isn't looking.

To the right there are the Breastmilk Knitters, steadily growing their green-rushed tights and mistily wondering how soon baby Appleogeon will take to produce the next batch of fertiliser.

Swaying jerkily around this group you'll find the nervous token man blushing into his song sheet. And then there, somewhere in the middle, are a few like me: early thirties-ish and each of us completely bemused as to how the hell we ended up sitting cross-legged in a cold church hall singing songs about bananas.

However, wherever you fit and whether you're fully aware of the actions to Tie Me Kangeroo Down (Sport), one thing you absolutely can't avoid is comparing your offspring to everyone else's. Politeness naturally forces you to coo and compliment each child, whilst secretly tightening the screws to your jaw and mumbling sweatily about Winston Churchill when faced with the, er, uglier babies. And trust me, if my group of misfits is anything to go by, there are some real howler monkeys out there.

For, after no longer than it takes to sing Row, Row, Row Your Boat, you'll swiftly learn that those who herald every baby as an identikit of old Whinny, have never even seen a child; let alone sat amongst an entire wailing wall of them on a blustery morning in North London.

Now then, don't get me wrong. Our Winston undoubtedly had his good points: tremendous at flicking backwards V signs at the odd paparazzo, and unrivalled in semantic play on the ends of beginnings, so I hear. But, not exactly a looker, and definately not the one-size-fits-all baby cast that some would have you believe.

It is true that most babies are bald and a bit squashy. But that really is where the connection ends, and anyone that even whispers the WC word in front of you is in no way being complimentary. Yes, there may be a few that are referring to Winston's infamous Hello makeover, published shortly after his VE day celebration photoshoot. However, most have in mind the slightly less glamourous side of our wartime hero: a Churchill tortured by rumours of Ribbentrop's superior mastery of the Playstation and suffering after one too many consolation drinks with Chamberlain in the Dog & Duck.

So, which Winston is Lucy? Well I'll admit that she does often look more boy than girl and is rarely at her best in the wee small hours, but I can honestly say I've yet to find a hint of our Greatest Briton about her either.

Mind you, if I did...I'd still love her. Hell, I'd probably love her if she looked like the love child of Frida Kahlo and Brian Blessed. In fact, yes, I'd love her even if she had 27 hair lips, a full-on beard and 'tache and went around smelling of the Folies Bergers.

After all, Mothercare do a nifty line in pastel burqas these days, and there's absolutely nothing in the lyrics of the Banana Boat Song that precludes even the most hirsute of babies from joining in.