Saturday, 20 October 2012

It's official...

(Based on diary extract from 03/02/2011). 

It came to the point where we felt we should make Albie official and register his name at the town hall. This would also be a good test of whether we were capable of leaving the house with a baby. I prepared my bag - which has turned into his bag but I'm determined not to get one of those crappy nappy bags from boots and retain at least some sort of style (yes, I'm still wearing my knee-high c-section socks). Nappies, portable changing mat, breast pads, muslins, Lansinoh cream (only mum's know what that's for ;)), change of clothes, hat, toys.... I just about found enough room to fit in my purse and phone.

We then headed to the town hall. I felt quite proud walking down the road, carrying Albie in his car seat. Onlookers walked past and cooed and smiled and it made me feel like I was a celebrity (or was it that my socks were showing?!) As we waited outside the registrars office I noticed the name 'Lesley' on the door. Expecting to be greeted by a middle aged lady in a suit and heels, I was instead greeted by a very eccentric middle aged man like David Dickinson, with jet black hair and the bushiest eyebrows I've ever seen.

We told him the name "Albert Joseph Maltby", expecting those huge eyebrows to raise at such a traditional name but instead he typed it in quite matter of factly (maybe they were just too bushy to raise). "A-L-B-E-R-T,".... he carried on in an unhurried manner, typing each letter with one large stubby forefinger. "what I'm going to do is..." he started to speak in his deep-based, slow voice as though he was explaining something to a 5 year old, "I am going to type on the keyboard A-L-B-E-R-T. J-O-S-E-P-H. M-A-L-T-B-Y, and then the information goes into the computer here," he said as he pointed his left stubby finger to his computer screen. Neil and I were trying not to snigger but managed to compose ourselves. "And then what happens..." he said slowly, "is I press the print button here" *thud* (that was the stubby finger pressing down with as much force as I would use to get into a cadbury's chocolate orange), "and the information comes out here," he said, as he pointed to a rather large printer. Once we'd finished our crash course in computing, we proudly walked out with our official child to the cooing, smiling, adoring faces, as though I was suddenly transported to a Mary Poppins film. I held back the urge to break into song.

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