Birth – Marmaduke Clinch
The baby showed up thirty-six hours later, at four in the morning. He weighed nearly a stone. Guy was allowed a brief visit to Hope’s suite. Looking back at it now, he had an image of mother and son mopping themselves down with gloating expressions on their faces, as if recovering from some enjoyably injudicious frolic: a pizza fight, by the look of it. Two extra specialists were present. One was peering between Hope’s legs saying, ‘Yes, well, it’s rather hard to tell what goes where.’ The other was incredulously measuring the baby’s head. Oh, the little boy was perfect in every way. And he was a monster.
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Great idea, Wayne.
Reporters: isn’t age comparison a behaviour of middle youth onwards? In every field of human endeavour, as well as fiction?
I’m still chuffed I look better than Homer Simpson, who is supposed to be thirty five.
Mr Amis, like the Stones, may have a pact with Lucifer for his full-ish head of hair and youthful looks.
Thanks Mark.
So. I’m the same age as Homer Simpson AND John Self. It really is all downhill from here…
As for the Reporters’ comment: I think that was put up by The Guardian about a piece I wrote for them yesterday to launch this blog but not sure if the link has worked properly. This is where it lives:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/booksblog/2009/sep/09/growing-up-favourite-fictional-characters