Wednesday, August 31, 2011


One of my brothers has a full time job that only really requires him to work a few hours a day.
‘Work smarter not harder,’ he tells me, as we set off for our daily constitutional by 2pm in the afternoon.

Often by this stage, Q and I have already been on a couple of walks, possibly a swim, done some serious crawling in the park, admired the planes, birds and dogs in the neighbourhood, thrown some food around the kitchen, sung a few songs, done a few dances and Q has napped long enough for me to put on a load of washing and contemplate cleaning the floor, so I am – justifiably I feel – a little pooped.

In the early walking days, (as a runner I was having a hard time adjusting to walking as a legitimate form of exercise) I used to carry or push Q myself as a bit of extra training, but now I happily offload her to her uncle and enjoy the hour with two arms all to myself.

Now, we are both redheads and people always think redheads are related even if they’re not but for some reason, with a kid in between us, people suddenly think we’re both the makers of the human.
Which is creepy.
And really, really gross.

The upside to this – for my brother of course – is that carrying this human ably and comfortably in his arms also means he gets hit on by all and sundry.
Young and old, male and female, partnered or not, he gets the look.
You know the one.

I used to get it.
Once upon a time.

Or perhaps more accurately I got it once, once upon a time.

Whatever, I remember it in the dim recesses of my brain back when I was glamorous and exotic.

Hang on a minute.
That’s the person I imagine I am.

Well I must have gotten the look at least once, or I wouldn’t be here to tell this tale of my daughter the romance magnet.

My other brother’s friends regularly ask me if they can borrow her on a Saturday morning for a trip to the markets – their ‘niece’ in one arm, a bunch of organic asparagus in the other, they get more hits than a smack addict on a bender.

So, since I can’t seem to land a gig at the mo’ I’ve decided to hire her out.

Whatdya reckon?

80 bucks an hour?

I provide all food and other equipment, all that’s required is that you return her in the same condition as when she left.
Except if she’s yelling. Then you can’t return her until she’s stopped.

I mean, if she got a commercial or a film or something I could take the profits and she wouldn’t even know, so where’s the difference?

Contact me if interested.


  1. Its true Naoms, there is nothing in this world sexier then a man being gorgeous with a baby. Back in my single days, men that I would never have given a second glance suddenly became irresistable!
    Sadly a frazzled mother screaming at her toddler doesn't appear to have the same effect on men - can't imagin why...
    Vic x

  2. one day your banshee-like scream will be recognised for the cry of love and care that it really is. in the meantime, just try not to pull a face when you do it! xx


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