I throw back the bed clothes and grab Jamie under one arm.
‘Downstairs… now!’ I hiss in his ear.
Giving him no time to reply – or scratch his balls, a morning ritual I will never get used to seeing – I heave him out of the bedroom and down into the lounge.
‘Read!’ I command, thrusting the certificate at his puffy face.
‘What?’ he repeats, brain not entirely caught up with his body yet. I stand and tap my foot while he stretches, yawns and scratches his balls. This appears to kick start his cerebral cortex. ‘Why do you want me to read this now woman? I need a piss.’
‘Just read it Jamie,’ I seethe.
‘Alright, alright.’ He takes the certificate and scans down it. ‘Seems fine to me.’
‘Read it again,’ I say in clipped, even tones.
He does so, brow knitted in concentration. Getting to the end he shrugs his shoulders. ‘Nothing wrong with it as far as I can see. What’s your problem?’
I let out a huff of exasperated air. ‘For a guy who writes for a living you’re not great at proof reading are you?’ I stab the part where our daughter’s name is recorded. ‘Read that bit again.’
Jamie does so and I am rewarded with his face turning ashen.
‘You see the bloody problem now, Captain Observant?’
He looks up with wide eyes and nods slowly.
The reason for Jamie’s shock and my towering rage is quite simple. Where Poppy Helen Newman’s name should be written in clear, legible font it instead reads:
POOPY HELEN NEWMAN.
A small mistake in terms of lettering – an enormous one for my daughter’s future if we can’t get it rectified.
‘They got the name wrong,’ Jamie says.
‘You fucking think so?!’ I rage. ‘I give you one simple task Jamie Newman, and you still messed that up!’
‘It’s not my fault!’
‘The kid’s at school will call her Shitty Newman, you know that don’t you?’
‘I said it’s not my fault!’
‘Or Poo-head. They’ll call her Poo-head.’ I point a finger. ‘Is that what you want Jamie? Our daughter to be called Poo-head until she reaches sixth form?’
‘I filled the form in right Laura!’
‘Did you?’
‘Yes!’ Jamie pantomimes writing something down. ‘Poppy Helen Newman, I wrote. I even double-checked it.’
‘And yet Jamie, we now appear to have a daughter named after the act of taking a dump.’
‘They must have cocked it up at the office.’
‘You think that’s likely, do you? You think that it’s more likely that a government organisation has made a gigantic cock up than you?’
I realise what I’m saying.
Of course it’s more likely a government organisation has cocked up. This is Britain!
‘Yeah… you see it wasn’t me!’ Jamie says triumphantly.
I offer him the pointy finger again. ‘You’re not off the hook yet, pal,’ I tell him and stalk over to the phone.
Then I remember it’s Saturday and there will be no bugger there for two days.
For two whole days my poor little baby - who has already been through a bout of life-threatening illness – will have the indignity of being called Poopy Newman.
I know her parents are no strangers to embarrassing toilet related incidents thanks to some chicken well past its sell by date, but I hardly think that warrants being named after the disastrous night in question.
We should have just called her Fajita Newman and been done with it.
Needless to say I was on the phone at precisely one second past nine this morning:
‘Good morning, Registrar of Births & Deaths.’
‘Morning. I want to speak to somebody about a cock-up.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘A cock-up, madam.’
‘Can I have your name please?’
‘Laura Newman. Please make sure you write that down carefully. I don’t want people thinking my name is Paula.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Never mind. I’m calling about a mistake on my baby’s birth certificate.’
‘What kind of mistake?’
‘Her name is Poppy. You have called her Poopy.’
‘What?’
‘Poopy. For some reason known only to you and your colleagues you have decided to brand my innocent little baby with the name Poopy for the rest of her natural days. Why would you do that?’
‘I can assure you we wouldn’t Mrs Newman.’
‘Oh really? The only other explanation is that your office is run by a bunch of lazy incompetent morons. Surely that can’t be true though, so I can assume you’re out to get my daughter?’
‘No-one is out to get your daughter, Mrs Newman.’
‘So you are a bunch of incompetents then?’
‘That’s not what I said… Look, I’ll have to put you on hold for a moment.’
“You don’t need money, don’t take fame, don’t need a credit card to ride this train… it’s strong and it’s sudden and it can be cruel at times, but it might just save your life… that’s the power of love! Oooh, that’s the powwwweeer of love!”
‘Hello Mrs Newman?’
‘Yes.’
‘My name is Peter Neville, I’m the senior clerk here. You say you have a problem with your baby’s birth certificate?’
‘Yep. Her name is Poopy. Why is she called Poopy, Mr Neville? Was it your idea? Do you get some thrill at naming children after bodily functions? Is there perhaps another poor unfortunate wandering around with the name Spunky Bloggs? Or possibly Mucus Jones?’
‘Come now, Mrs Newman.’
‘No, you come now, Mr Neville… er, I didn’t mean that. Look, my daughter’s name is wrong on her birth certificate and I want it changed!’
‘That’s impossible Mrs Newman, we are very careful with names here. Whatever was put on the form is the name that is registered.’
‘Then my husband is a pillock.’
‘That may be the case, Mrs Newman.’
‘It may be, but I don’t think I’m quite willing to let things go at your end, Mr Neville. Can you find the original form my husband filled in? It’s important for the future of my marriage and his genitals.’
‘Already being located Mrs Newman. My associate Miss Penrose is looking for it as we speak.’
‘Good. I’d like this cleared up as soon as possible. I can hear Poopy waking up and I need to go change her.’
‘Aha! Here we are. Here is the form your husband filled in and I can see that – ’
‘Mr Neville?’
‘I am so very, very sorry Mrs Newman. It does appear that the error has been made by one of our staff. I’ll just need to put you on hold again for a moment.’
“It’s hip to be square… here, there and everywhere… hip! hip! so hip to be square… here, there and everywhere… hip! hip! soooo hip to be square…”
‘Hello Mrs Newman?’
‘Is that the greatest hits album? Only I meant to buy it for Jamie last month and I can’t find it anywhere.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Never mind, what have you got to tell me Mr Neville?’
‘As I said, I’m so very sorry for the error and the inconvenience. We’ll make sure the name is changed on Poopy’s certificate – ’
‘Poppy’s certificate.’
‘Indeed! Poppy’s certificate, and have a new one sent out to you immediately. I’m so sorry for the inconvenience.’
‘You already said that, but thank you very much Mr Neville. With any luck I won’t need to call you again. Unless I have another child and you end up changing its name to Urine.’
So we now wait for the second birth certificate to come through. This one had better be correct or I’ll be sending a harshly worded letter to my MP.
Delivered via Peter Neville’s rectal passage.
Love and miss you, Mum.
Your still quite irate
daughter, Paula.
xxx
Jamie’s Blog
Friday 28 March
Sleep.
Dear, sweet sleep.
Once you were my constant companion, there for me whenever I needed you. I would be tired and you would take me in your warm embrace, ushering me into a wonderful land of dreams, from which I would awake refreshed and ready to go about my day.
But you have deserted me sleep.
…no longer constantly at my side.
…no longer there whenever I need you.
I have another companion now. One that makes sure you never get a look in these days.
Her name is Poppy Newman and there is every chance she is going to drive me crazy.
We were lulled into a false sense of security at the hospital, and in the first few days of having Poppy at home.
All she seemed to do was sleep. We got through nights with barely a peep out of her. Oh, she would wake up and Laura would breast feed her, but it was only once every five or six hours - and we were still bathed in the novelty of the whole thing, anyway.
Her gentle cries would wake us from slumber and Laura would take care of it. This meant I didn’t have to do a damn thing, plus I got a look at my wife’s enormous boobs.
All in all, things were going just fine.
Then Laura stopped breast feeding…
This was very early, but also quite necessary. ‘She’s ripping my nipples to shreds,’ Laura said last week. ‘It’s uncomfortable, painful and I’m sick of having to flop a tit out in public.’
…and that was that. Boobs out, bottles in.
This is when my life became a living nightmare.
Poppy did not take kindly to being taken off the breast. Not kindly at all.
She started to wake more frequently at night. I had to share the job of feeding her as well now, thanks to Laura deciding to go the bottle route.
If the zombie apocalypse ever does occur, the undead will have a problem differentiating me from their rotting brethren, given the state of me these days. I look and feel like hammered shit.
It only took seven days – seven days! – of my daughter’s nightly screaming sessions to reduce me from a productive member of society to a shambling misfit barely able to tie his own shoelaces.
Laura is handling it better than me, but then Laura hasn’t come to the end of her maternity leave yet and can take naps during the day when the baby is asleep.
Me? I get the pleasure of going to work each and every day on about two hours sleep.
I can’t be sure, but I think the lack of decent rest may be affecting my work.
Yesterday I arrived twenty minutes late to the office, even though I’d driven into the car park at work on time. The reason for the twenty minute delay between car park and desk was quite simple – I crashed the bloody car.
That may be going overboard somewhat, but I definitely did damage to the poor old Mondeo, which was already sporting several dents and scratches thanks to the headlong rush to the hospital when Poopy was born.
…yes I know her name is Poppy, but ever since that cock-up with the birth certificate I’m finding it very hard to shake calling her Poopy. It just seems so apt. All she does all day is poop.
I’ll have to get out of the habit soon though, otherwise I’ll be calling her Poopy at her university graduation, which I assume won’t go down well at all.
The reason for the car crash was as a direct result of my lack of sleep, needless to say.
The brain (especially mine) needs that eight hours a night to recharge its batteries. Not getting the required amount of slumber can leave you as fuzzy headed as if you’d just smoked three joints in a row.
I’d been driving to work every day feeling more spaced-out than Captain Kirk, but until yesterday I’d managed it without causing me or anyone else any harm. Having Radio One blaring out at top volume helps. There’s nothing like the grating screech of Lady Gaga singing about her vagina to keep you wide awake at seven thirty in the morning.
On this particular morning though, I’d had a week of this and my batteries were dead. Not even Gaga, Rihanna and Kesha all singing about their vaginas could have kept me alert as I swung the motor in the building entrance and drove to my parking space.
Space.
That’s the key word we have to think about at this juncture.
More specifically, Jamie Newman’s ability to comprehend space (and indeed distance) accurately on a total of nine hours sleep over the past five days.
My parking space at the paper is towards the back of the car park (naturally) and backs up to a disused building where they used to store the huge rolls of paper. It’s now used by the local rats as a knocking shop.
Usually, it’s very easy to pull my car into the space, leaving an adequate distance between bumper and wall.
Not today though…
From where I sit, hands clenched on the steering wheel and brow creased, the idea of completing this simple task, that I’ve easily managed hundreds of times before, seems totally beyond me.
I edge the car forward as slowly as possible, and for a moment I think I’ve done a good job. The car is in its space and all is well.
Except when I get out of the car I discover that there’s actually a good three feet between bumper and wall, with the arse end sticking out so far into the lane it would be impossible for anyone to get past.
It takes me a few seconds to digest this. How could I have parked so badly?
I get back in and gingerly start to move the car forward again, slowly moving closer to the wall and –
SMASH!!
What I thought was ‘gingerly’ in fact turns out to be ‘far too fucking fast, you moron’.
The Mondeo comes to an immediate halt with a crunch, and my head jerks forward painfully.
Then the airbag goes off, punching me in the face just as I’ve come to terms with my new whiplash.
‘Ohhfurglebassacunn!’ I muffle into the airbag before it deflates.
I put a hand up to what is now a lovely new nose bleed and try to staunch the flow.
Luckily, there are some tissues in the glove box and I roll a couple up, sticking them up my nostrils to prevent the blood escaping, while I get out and survey the damage to the car.
It sounded worse than it actually was, thank goodness.
While there will be an expensive trip to the garage to fix the bumper and replace the airbag, the grill, lights and front of the car have escaped relatively unscathed. This is good, as I’m running pretty low on money right now thanks to Poopy’s never ending demand for nappies.
Picture the scene in your head, if you will: Jamie Newman, standing by his crumpled car, hair in a messy thatch, suit creased to high heaven, shirt un-tucked, shoes unpolished, face of haggard aspect thanks to no sleep, and two long strands of man sized tissue emanating from each nostril – both going a healthy shade of red from the top down.
Now I have a multiple choice question for you:
Who do you think appears on the scene right at this moment to confront Newman in his current state?
A) Janice, the friendly car park attendant, who is always nice to Newman every time he sees her, and is able to render much needed assistance and sympathy at this trying time?
B) Pete, a passing paramedic, who - by massive co-incidence - is coming out of the newspaper building and is able to render much needed assistance and sympathy at this trying time?
C) Megan Fox, who – by unbelievable co-incidence – is coming out of the newspaper building and is able to render much needed assistance, sympathy and a sloppy, teeth rattling blow job at this trying time?
D) David Keene, owner and CEO of the newspaper, who - by incredibly unlucky co-incidence – is coming out of the newspaper building and is able to render a completely unneeded dressing down in the middle of the car park to one of his employees - who’s had a car crash, no sleep for a week and a throbbing headache thanks to the deployed airbag.
Those
of you who have been reading this blog for some time will have automatically – and correctly – dismissed the first three choices as being the kinds of thing that only happen to other, more fortunate people.
‘Good morning Mr Keene,’ I say from behind my man-sized tissue tusks when he’s finally stopped berating me for looking so scruffy.
‘What the bloody hell are you doing, Newman?’
My brain, already taxed to its limits by exhaustion, simply cannot conjure up a feasible excuse for this sorry scene, so I just stand there and make fish faces at Keene for a few seconds.
‘Why have you got that stuff stuck up your nose?’ he asks.
I struggle to think of the answer. ‘I… I didn’t get that much sleep last night, sir.’ I tell him, completely out of context.
‘Really? Is that because you kept jamming things up your nose?’
‘What? Er… no, sir. My baby.’
‘Your baby kept jamming things up your nose?’
‘No, no. I’m just… very, very tired Mr Keene.’
I look a pathetic sight and no mistake.
Even David Keene, a man known for his cut-throat business practises and hard-nosed approach to every problem he encounters, can’t stay angry at me. It would be like kicking a three-legged puppy with weepy eyes.
Keene’s face softens and he puts a hand on my arm. ‘It’s alright Newman. I was a new father once as well. Is the little one keeping you up much?’
‘Yes. She screams all the time at night. It’s like living with an insomniac banshee.’
Keene nods sympathetically. ‘Are you okay to work today, my boy?’
My bottom lip trembles. I’m a fully grown career professional, with an extensive client portfolio - and I’m about to start crying in front of my boss’s boss. ‘I think so, sir. I just need some coffee and an aspirin.’
Keene rifles in his pocket and produces a blister pack. ‘Here’s some Nurofen. I can’t help with the coffee, but the machine’s working in the foyer.’
I take the gift of painkillers with heartfelt gratitude. ‘Thank you.’
Love... And Sleepless Nights MAY 2012 Page 12
