New life
Licensed to settle down
Zenga Longmore
That's it. I've made up my mind, and there's no use trying to persuade me out of it. Never again am I going out without Omalara.
Since she was born, three months ago, I have been out without her three times. Each time it was to the theatre, and every time was sheer, undiluted hell. If you want to know what I went through, try going out one night leaving a vital organ at home. A liver or a kidney will do, it's up to you; then see how long you can last without fretting over how everything's going with the vital organ-sitter. A few minutes was my time limit.
Take last Friday, for instance. My sister Boko baby-sat for the night, and, as the `I don't know much about art, but I know what I ought to like.' evening wore on, she grew so tired of the constant phone calls that she took to shrieking, `Omalara's all right!' and clatter- ing down the receiver before I'd said a word. (Boko is prone to these emotional outbursts. She lives in Harlesden, you see.) Could I enjoy the play? Could I relax in the interval with the mandatory glass of red wine vinegar? I could not. Whilst the poor actors struggled to amuse, all I could think was, 'Is Omalara crying? Have I left enough nappies? Shish kebab! I forgot to leave the sterilising tablets! Will Omalara subconciously remember all this, and hate me with a deep, psychological loathing when she's 15?'
After living out a whole evening of this nightmare, I returned to Boko's and was promptly sick — nerves, I assure you, not the vinegary theatre wine. Although it was touching to see Omalara jump with glee and say Iley-ah' when I entered the room, I vowed and swore that this was the last time. Let Olumba call me a mad, over- protective hermit. I am never leaving Omalara again until she is old enough to tell me not to, and then, of course, I won't have the heart.
Orra lighter note, Mrs Wright, from the ninth floor, has been at the tea-leaves again. 'They say', she explained, 'that a noted gentleman will soon be a-thanking you.'
`Who? And what for?'
`That's not for us to know yet, dearie; but thank you he will. Look — there he is. And she pointed a bony finger at a clump of fetid black blobs.
All night long I lay awake wondering who he could be. Somewhere around four in the morning it clicked. Of course! Timothy Dalton. Now he's the glittering star of the latest James Bond film, but it is a little-known fact that it was I who discovered him. Timmy, as I call him, was but a struggling bit-part actor when first I noticed him. The film was Cromwell, and he played the part of Prince Rupert, the dashing Cavalier who attempted to redeem England from the evil Roundheads. Falling instantly in love, as ten-year-olds are wont to do, I wrote him a long letter, the gist of it being that if we became friends I would agree to star as his leading lady when I grew up. The rest is history. Dalton's career went from strength to strength, and all due to yours truly. Without that letter, written in a round ten-year-old's hand, would he have been fired to make some- thing of his life? Timmy, my friend, keep your broken thanks. All I ask is an invitation to a premiere or two, and a part for Omalara in your next film. Let's face it, there aren't nearly enough babies in James Bond. Isn't it about time James settled down, started a
i family and gave Omalara that break n showbiz she so plainly deserves? Over to you, Tim.
Previous page
