On
Christmas Eve 2006, I found myself locked out of the house in the small hours
of the morning and had one of those 'oh God, is this all my life is ever going
to be?' moments. Soon thereafter, I had a vision of myself with twin daughters
(Eleanor Victoria and Nathalie Joanna) who would get double firsts at Oxford
and make their old man even more impossibly proud by playing Man On The Silver Mountain and Temple Of The King on viola and harpsichord at the village fair.
I
laboured under this delusion for a couple of years until my friends started to
reproduce. I went to someone's house for a Sunday lunch and was surrounded by
babies and toddlers. They shuffled about like drunken midgets, bumped into
things and broke them, screamed like banshees whenever they fell over, puked,
shat and peed all over the place and poked their sticky little fingers into
EVERYTHING.
The above was the stuff of nightmares for a neat freak like m'self, and I realised it would only get worse from there if I had children of my own. I'd have to feed, clothe, discipline and educate the little buggers for at least eighteen years, cook for them, clean up after them, answer their endless questions and try not to strangle them all the while.
That
seems like a pretty tall order for someone who can barely look after himself,
and from there it was only a hop, skip and jump to the realisation that not
only did I not want kids, I didn't even like them. If nothing else, being a
parent is so permanent. You can't send them back for a refund if you change
your mind and, if you stuff up, which I almost certainly would, that one
mistake or lapse in judgement will affect them for the rest of their lives.
So,
long story slightly less so, no kids for me. I'm quite happy to be remembered
through the books I will write, mostly about people like me who hover around
the edges of society and can't quite make sense of it all, and the English Lit
courses I will teach once I'm qualified to do that. I want to be part Socrates and
part Alice Cooper with a dash of Dead Poet's Society. In short, the cool tutor
everyone hopes they get, who will blow their minds by encouraging them to think
about the books and films they already love in ways they never considered
before.
I
will chase that dream at the expense of everything else and go anywhere in the
world to make it come true. Compromising it, or giving it up altogether for the
sake of a partner and a family, isn't an option, nor would I expect anyone to
give up or change her plans and ambitions so she could be with me while I
follow mine. That isn't fair.
To
quote my old pal Clive Barker, 'personal relationships have their place but
everything is put aside for work. To me, the idea of a wife and children is a
millstone, getting between me and the things I want to do. My most intimate
relationship is with my imagination. It always has been. My imagination is the
one thing that I really like about myself. It is the longest one night stand
I've ever had. And it has never let me down. Yet.'
I may die alone. I believe we all do no matter who is with us at the time, but I sure as hell won't die forgotten.
Yes, the whole kiddy-scene is very messy, as you say. Personally, I’m fond of dogs as a viable alternative. Okay, dogs have to be fed, which results in them pooping regularly, and they might puke on your floor in their dotage, but as a general rule they are a lot easier to feed, clean up after and train than kids, and are definitely less argumentative when they hit adolescence. They are also very loyal and good company. So I suggest you stick to your guns and keep writing. Maybe weave a dog into your plot? Preferably not a Hound from the Baskervilles. That would negate my ‘dogs are good’ position. How about using ‘Inspector Rex’ as a role model…. ;-)
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