You know when you walk into a restaurant and they have those photos on the wall of the owner, normally some schmaltzy old Italian or Jewish guy with a big cigar and fat belly, shaking hands with the rich and the famous who have dined there. The ones who didn’t later sue for infectious diseases. The concept is particularly popular in America, especially in smaller, independent places and even diners. Because, believe it or not, the rich and famous eat hamburgers and hot dogs too. Obviously not Gwynnie and her ilk, they drink green slime and have their bodies pumped for toxins. The photos are a measure of success, a mark of acclamation. Look, if Robert De Niro/Barbara Windsor/Ian Paisley ate here and lived, how bad can it be?

I wonder if Prince Philip has a ‘wall of fame’. Not that he isn’t quite famous himself, but if he has a ‘wall’ at one of the Palaces with photos of everyone famous he’s shaken hands with, it must be a fucking massive wall. Everyone from Winston Churchill to Justin Bieber. From Harold Wilson to Bobby Moore. President Roosevelt to Woody Allen. He’s almost spanned the lot, from Queen Victoria to Victoria’s Secrets.

But now its over. He’s taking early retirement from public stuff (I can’t think how else to describe his actual job title). At 95 he wants a bit of a rest from the constant dressing up like a soldier/sailor/Lord High Executioner and put his feet up. Ride some horses. Bet on some horses. Doesn’t matter. He’s paid his dues. The Queen will carry on without him. Why, exactly, she chooses to do that when there’s about 600 lesser royals quite capable of cutting red ribbons I don’t know. She should retire too. Maybe travel a bit.

At the other end of the scale is Lila. Not quite ready to retire yet. Though she did have her first, official sleepover on Wednesday. Her daddy had to go away for the night so mummy and baby came to me. To help. To assist in stuff. And you think (because you’ve probably forgotten, or maybe never knew) how much time babies take up. Because the demands are constant. Not just for feeding, which are fairly constant. But in between. You can’t just let a baby sit there, even if she’s happy doing so. You have to ‘stimulate’, you have to ‘engage’, you have to… well, drive that baby mad with attention. So when (my)daughter/(her)mummy went for a shower in her 3.6 minutes of allotted ‘me-time’ for the day, Lila and I listened to some music. I chose Nirvana. She didn’t say ‘no’ when suggested, so we pranced round the kitchen to the jolly, tinkly sounds of Smells Like Teen Spirit. Lila loved it. Asked for some Black Sabbath. Sort of. Then sicked over her muslin.

And of course, the demands continue, even when she sleeps. So much to do. Like… like watching her sleep, staring at her for movements, just… just… anything.

I think I’m obsessed. Need some grounding. Spurs playing West Ham tonight. That might do it. Lila and I shall watch it together.

Happy Friday

A xxxx