Week 1: Baby Raver

'There is no more sombre enemy of art than the pram in the hall.'
(Cyril Connolly, English art critic, author and journalist)

I was going to write a blog about losing a father, then becoming one. A meditation on life and death: the big bookends in the story of existence. But then I thought about the idea, and the solemnity of it depressed me. Instead I'm going to write in response to the above quotation to see if I can still create something interesting within the time constraints of parenthood.

Each week I'll write a piece (I'll try to do this in a different form or technique: poem, sketch, letter, diary, personification, surrealism etc.). I'll include a fact linked to the writing, where the piece was written and a picture of my boy so we can track how he changes.

This is the first one:

Fact
Babies sleep around 16-18 hours a day. (Not all of these are at night.)
Type of writing:
Poem
Where was the idea conceived?
Children's Centre Car Park (only mums could go in to see the midwife)
How long did it take to write? 
1 hour.

The Ibiza Clubber

My son is an Ibiza Clubber,

He sleeps the day away,

Reclined - hands behind head,

A sun lounger,

Ordering a round at the milk bar,

Relaxing by the pools of 

adoring eyes.

But he is plotting a large one,

A full on rave,

A Manumission,

A man on a mission

To bring the noize.

His head on the mattress crib

A drop,

A drop

That sends him into a frenzy,

He 'SCREAMS' ,

He 'SHOUTS'

His mouth a 

state of the art sound system 

of caterwauling cries

And then it's the chunder bus home,

Onto the shame of soiled underwear

And wet right through

pissed on clothes.

But this kid is a raver,

Tomorrow he'll shrug off the hangover,

And ready himself for

Another night out.