New life

Join the club

Zenga Longmore

Before I became a mother, the name `One O'Clock Club' meant absolutely noth- ing to me. To be quite honest, if somebody had invited me to a one o'clock club in my pre-Omalara days, I would very likely have raised an affronted upper lip, imagining that I had been asked to join an old age pensioners' afternoon bingo session.

When Omalara was a few months old, I remember strolling through my local park on a sweltering afternoon. Behind an iron fence, in an enclosure of the park, a gather- ing of children played on an abundance of slides, in paddling pools and sandpits. A rich assortment of Brixton mothers sat about chatting to one another beneath clouds of smoke Upper-class mothers shrilled 'Jessica!' at their female offspring, West Indian and African mothers threw cigarettes to one another in an affection- ately playful manner, petite cockney moth- ers laughed raucously whenever they managed to catch one of the flying fags, and a pair of punk mothers thoughtfully stroked their pet rat. The combination of buoyant children and variegated mothers impressed me to the core. What was this corner of Eden in my local park? Painted on the gate which barred outsiders were the words, 'One O'Clock Club'.

I stood staring in with impotent longing. Could anyone join this club, and if so, was the membership fee affordable? If I could but have sat as one amongst that mixed bag of motherhood, watching Omalara feeding sand to her little ponies, I felt my life's quota of happiness would be filled. Alas, shyness prevented me from doing aught but stare at the club inmates with lingering and, as I said, impotent longing.

Sauntering into my local park last week, I came across Amanda, my sister Boko's social worker friend. She was pushing her sleeping infant in a pram, and staring glass- ily at the shrubs and fauna around.

`Hi-yah!' she trilled, `Greg-a-at to see you! Ha ha ha!'

`Ha ha ha,' I replied, always prepared to do as the social workers do.

`Going to the one o'clock club? I've just been, but baby's asleep so I'm off home now for a me period.'

`Ha ha ha,' I replied again, then cleverly changed my tack. 'Er, about this one o'clock club. What exactly is it?'

`Oh, simply a collection of parents who have banded together to form a child- focused group. I go there in order to strengthen the developmentation of my daughter's social skills. Why do you ask?'

`Nothing, nothing, just wondered, that's all. So you just pushed open the gate, and sat down amongst the other mothers? Like this —' and here I performed an intricate mime depicting the act of walking into a one o'clock club and settling down amongst an assortment of mothers.

`Yes! Wow, that's ama-a-azing! Ever see Kiki Jarden? Mime artiste. ICA. You looked just like him just then. Anyway, see ya. Bye Omalara.' Omalara abandoned her pigeon chase to wave cheerfully.

When Amanda's lanky figure had disap- peared through the trees, I girded my loins, if that's the expression I want, and wended my way towards the iron gate. With one simple motion I swung it open.

`Excuse me,' I asked a spare mother, `how do you join this club?'

lust by walking in, sitting down and allowing your child to develop essential social skills whilst you drink coffee.'

`I see. In that case, is it all right for me to take Omalara in and just sit down etc etc?'

`No. We're closed for the day. Come back next week.'

Next week! Can I wait that long? Be still, oh beating heart.