Southerly by David Haywood

When you find a good barber, you stick with him. I've been going to my current barber for a dozen years now, and I daresay I shall remain a customer until one of us dies.

You know where you are with a barber. You turn up; you get a haircut. End of story. There's no pre-arrangement of visits. You may have to wait for a few minutes, perhaps even an hour -- but that's all part of the process. In the meantime you can do something manly, such as reading the sports section. Appointments are only for the sort of people who go to hairdressers.

A proper barber has a proper bloke's name. My barber is called Arthur. He has never offered to shampoo my hair. Nor has he ever asked what sort of haircut I would like. When you sit in his chair, and he says "Short back and sides" -- it is a statement, not a question.

Conversation is according to strict protocol. Suitable topics include: the current fuel efficiency of your motor car, the contemptibility of all politicians, the sports results (except for soccer, obviously), and the most reliable type of potato to grow in your vegetable garden.

Departures from protocol are rare, but occasionally do occur. In my pre-Arthur days, I frequented a barber who once made the mistake of mentioning his sex life. He was describing his holidays when he dropped the bombshell.

"I had a fling with an Eskimo lady while I was in Canada," he blurted out. Our eyes met in the mirror. "Of course, they prefer to be called Inuit, nowadays," he added.

But it was too late. We both knew that the unwritten protocol for conversations had been broken, and that I would never sit in his barber's chair again.

I found another barber's shop in the yellow pages. This caused unexpected complications when it turned out that there had been a recent change of ownership, and that the establishment had now become a 'unisex hair salon'. I only discovered this when the teenage hairdresser asked me what style I preferred.

"Just short-back-and-sides, please," I replied.

"Oh," she said. "I'm not sure if I know that one."

I wouldn't have believed it possible for anyone in the hair business not to have heard of this hairstyle, nor to produce a haircut less like short-back-and-sides. Her final result was an alien-esque bouffant hairdo of the sort worn by people from flying saucers. It looked as if I'd had my hair styled by falling feet-first down a lift shaft.

The sheer awfulness of the haircut -- and, I suppose, the expression of increasing surprise and incredulity on my face -- affected the hairdresser so much that eventually she began to weep whilst operating her scissors. In the end she locked herself in the toilet, and refused to come out. One of her more experienced colleagues was called in to attempt a haircut intervention, and proffered her opinion that the disaster was my fault.

"You're using the wrong type of product," she told me. Seeing my puzzled reaction to the word 'product', she asked impatiently: "What do you use to wash your hair?"

Even as the word "soap" left my lips, I realized that it was probably the wrong reply.

A barber is a man you can depend upon. Although that's not to suggest that there aren't good female barbers, or that a barber's shop is a male-only establishment. My barber has a woman customer whom he refers to as "that nice lesbian lady". They play golf together. "She's given me some good advice on my swing," Arthur told me recently, "I'm driving about 20 yards further these days."

In more enlightened times, barbers used to perform minor surgery. When my dentist told me that I needed my wisdom teeth out, I asked Arthur if he'd consider the job. He got me to open my mouth, and peered inside. "No, you're alright," he said finally. "Leave them in." I took his advice, and they've never given me a twinge. I don't know why I ever bothered with dentists.

A trim from Arthur costs fourteen dollars for a full head of hair, but only ten if you're balding. The last time I went for a haircut he charged me twelve dollars. I don't know if he has a new pricing regime, or whether I'm entering a new stage of follicular deterioration. But, either way, I know I can rely on Arthur's support.

He's a man you can trust.

My friend and former colleague, Dr Creon, dropped by to visit us on Friday. "For those in need of sleep," he said, handing me a box of groceries at the door.

The box contained a wheel of brie, and a big slab of blue-vein cheese, and a number of other cheesy and delicious things that Jennifer hasn't been able to eat for the last nine months or so.

Dr Creon has a Ph.D. in Thomas Pynchon -- or, to be more specific, Pynchon's novel Mason & Dixon. Dr Creon also has a large number of sisters. The combination of these two factors seems to have given him a profound insight into the nutritional requirements of women at various stages in their lives. Jennifer was deeply impressed.

I first met Dr Creon when we were both Ph.D. students, and I once suggested to him that he should consider changing his thesis topic to Kurt Vonnegut and Slaughterhouse Five. "Slaughterhouse Five is shorter," I explained, "and has better jokes."

"Well," replied Creon, "I seem to be stuck with Thomas Pynchon and Mason & Dixon." He thought for a moment, and then added: "So it goes."

I admired the resigned manner with which Creon accepted his Ph.D. fate. And I have resolved to emulate his philosophical approach now that my life has descended into a nightmare of sleep-deprivation, endless screaming, projectile-defecation, and other practices normally prohibited by the Geneva convention.

Yes, parenthood is quite gruelling. But, on the positive side, people have been very kind. Special mention for the most far-flung act of kindness goes to a Public Address reader in Konstanz.

This generous reader remembered my travel piece about Berlin in which I expounded my radical theory that the cartoon host of the German children's television programme Die Sendung mit der Maus is actually a rabbit. She very kindly sent me the stuffed-toy version of Die Maus for the baby. I'll let readers make up their own minds as to the question of species.

Above: You be the judge -- mouse or rabbit?

Nappies, vomit-mopping, and so forth, have kept me from writing anything very profound this week. But here are a couple of things that might be suitable for those who are also in need of sleep.

The first, rather immodestly, is a travel piece of mine from last month's Avenues Magazine. My usual prose style is somewhat constrained by the requirements of the publication, but hopefully it is still readable:

"Do you enjoy dead people, sir?" enquired the concierge. It was an unusual question. "Because if you do," she continued, "I can recommend the Denfert-Rochereau Ossuary. It's extremely enjoyable to visit -- seven million corpses are interred there."...

[Click here to read the full article]

The second item is something I came across while catching up on my technical reading in hospital -- and is one of the best research papers I’ve read in years. Ayres and Warr (writing in Structural Change and Economic Dynamics) explain the Solow residual using the Laws of Thermodynamics. Totally amazing stuff that should be compulsory reading for anyone interested in economics.

This may potentially be Nobel prize-winning material -- although those in need of sleep might need coffee beforehand.

The last few weeks in hospital have cultivated Jennifer's gracious side. She now receives visitors to her sick-bed in the manner of the Queen welcoming a head-of-state into Buckingham Palace.

"This is my bed," says Jennifer with a regal wave. "This is my food-tray. This is my emergency button. This is my chest of drawers -- only wood veneer, but as you can see, very roomy and convenient."

Saly [sic], Jennifer's previous room-mate, gave birth some days ago and has already gone home. She provided drama right up until the last moment, when she point-blank refused to go to the birthing suite unless she was allowed to smoke a ciggie beforehand.

It was slightly frustrating to see Saly move on without us. Despite the daily assurances from the doctors that the baby would "probably be induced tomorrow", we were both beginning to think that Jennifer's incarceration in the antenatal ward might go on for years.

By dawn on Friday, however, certain signs and portents had become unmistakable. The first sign was Jennifer's dream (recounted to me by telephone early Friday morning) that Russell Brown had sent her a big parcel of cheese. According to Jennifer, the cheese was: "The most delicious cheese in the world".

I can't put my finger on it, but there is something fishy about this dream. I know that I should probably laugh it off -- but Jennifer's lingering account of the deliciousness of the cheese gave me a strong urge to fly up to Auckland, punch Russell Brown on the nose, and tell him to keep his damn cheese to himself in future.

Fortunately perhaps, all thoughts of cheese were driven from my mind by the second sign, which occurred during my morning bus ride into the hospital. One of my fellow passengers arose from his seat, pointed a shaking finger towards the window, and cried in a sepulchral voice: "Look! The sun is like a giant red orb, dripping with blood!" In fact, the sun was in the opposite direction -- and the passenger's wildly bloodshot eyes were focussed on a traffic light. But, if you ask me, this still counts as a portent.

I came across the third sign as I walked through Hagley park from the bus stop to the hospital. It was, quite literally, an actual sign.

Above: A mysterious sign in Hagley Park.

I have devoted considerable thought to this sign. It might be acceptable for a cleaning company to advertise: Houses Luxed Out. P.S. We Also Do Venetians. I might even employ a company with the slogan: Houses Luxed Out: Venetians a Speciality. But a company which only luxes venetians seems (to me, at any rate) to be specialized to the point of stupidity.

For example, here is a simple question -- how often in your life have you heard a variation on this sentence: "Merv, I can lux out the rest of the house, no problem at all. But frankly, those venetians are beyond me. We'll have to get someone in to do them."? Nope, me neither. I rest my case.

The fourth sign was an exciting package from Paul Brislen at Vodafone. Paul had read of Jennifer's lack-of-internet-access-in-hospital plight on Public Address. He generously loaned Jennifer a Vodafone Mobile Connect card for her laptop, which he sent by courier from Auckland. "Oh, and don't worry about the traffic charges," he said breezily, "I'll take care of those".

By the time I arrived in hospital, Jennifer had already downloaded a mini-library of journal articles about her medical condition, and was ploughing her way through them. Paul's act of kindness to strangers had made her a very happy woman.

The fifth sign occurred on Friday evening, when I was raving to Jennifer about The L.e.d.s new album.

Me: So, anyway, I'd liken their first album to maybe a Mk.I Austin-Healey Sprite, or perhaps a Karmann Ghia coupé. You know, the sort of car you love to drive because it's just so cool and quirky. But their new album is like an Austin-Healey Sprite or a Karmann Ghia that's been totally pimped by Lotus: race-tuned suspension; re-worked engine; makes a noise like a dive-bombing Stuka. It's just this massive wall of sound -- completely awe-inspiring."

Jennifer: Hmm... I think I might be in labour.

The full manifestation of this fifth and final sign occurred when the hospital midwife connected Jennifer to the CTG machine. "Nope, no contractions, I'm afraid," said the midwife. "Just a few Prostin niggles, I'd say."

"Are you sure?" said Jennifer, wincing as she replied to another message from her 300-plus email backlog. "They're really quite painful."

"You wait until you're really in labour", said the midwife with a condescending chuckle. "You won't be playing around on your computer then, lovey. No, I'm afraid this baby won't be arriving for another couple of days at least."

Thirty minutes later our son, Robert, was born.

Above: Robert Haywood (aged one hour) -- a quick arrival.

I won't give details of the thirty minutes of 'official' labour, except to mention these three points:

1. Jennifer had the great pleasure of pressing the emergency button, which -- she later confessed -- she'd been longing to do ever since she arrived in hospital.
2. Our midwife arrived just in time to catch the baby -- another thirty seconds and she'd have been too late.
3. If a bloke went through an ordeal equivalent to childbirth, he would (at the very least) be awarded a medal by the Governor-General, a ticker-tape parade down Queen Street, and a frenzied mobbing by radio and television journalists asking: "How do you feel?".

Women are truly remarkable.

Update:

The above words were written two weeks ago, while Jennifer was still in hospital. Subsequently, Robert developed complications which required admission to the intensive care unit. Happily, however, after 10 days, I was able to bring both him and his mother back home -- Jennifer having been in hospital for just short of a month. My thanks to everyone who has sent concerned emails. A very long and worrying pregnancy is finally over.

Jennifer has been in hospital for a week now, and we are both gradually becoming institutionalized. Our daily highlights include: Jennifer's breakfast at 8 am; Jennifer's lunch at 12.30 pm; and Jennifer's dinner at 5.30 pm.

Each day the doctors explain that the baby may have to be induced prematurely. Each day the doctors decide that they can hang on for one more day. Which suits us fine -- the longer the baby can stay growing inside the better.

Twice daily, Jennifer is hooked up to the cardiotocography (CTG) machine. This has made me fully understand the derivation of the word 'alarm' in the context of "an electronic device which produces a noise in order to attract attention". The alarm on the CTG machine's has two possible meanings:

1. your baby is dead; or
2. your baby is perfectly healthy (but it has moved by a few nanometres so that the machine is no longer able to pick up its heartbeat).

As you can imagine, it's quite the cliff-hanger while the mid-wife ascertains which of A or B has actually occurred.

Hospital, like war, can best be described as long periods of boredom -- interrupted by short periods when you realize that boredom wasn't such a bad thing. The dull patches are beginning to annoy Jennifer, who is especially frustrated that she can't find a wireless network in the vicinity of the hospital.

"No wireless," she announces when I arrive in the morning. "Still no wireless," she says mournfully, as I prepare to make my departure at night. Yesterday there was a brief moment of hope when her laptop suddenly found a connection. But, alas, it had only discovered the wireless card in my laptop.

On the bright side, however, Jennifer's new room-mate (or "cell-mate" as Jennifer prefers to call her) has provided us with endless hours of diversion. Saly [sic] (pronounced "Sally") doesn't believe in vegetables, preferring to provide for her unborn child's nutritional needs with a diet that consists solely of meat and cigarettes. Her reaction to hospital food is quite gratifying:

Saly: Oh my God! Oh my God! I've never seen anything so disgusting in my life! What on earth is it?

Nurse-Aide: It's broccoli.

Saly: I've never even heard of that!

Saly's oft-stated opinions about health are a triumph of anecdote over medical statistics. My favourite Saly quote so far: "Well, my granddad didn't eat vegetables either, and he smoked all his life as well, and he lived to be 73 -- so vegetables and not-smoking can't be all that healthy for you." She's a veritable Deborah Coddington of nutritional science.

Her partner is clearly of the opinion that Saly's hospitalization is due to laziness more than any other factor. This leads to long and heated arguments about his lack of sympathy. Jennifer and I cower on our side of the room, while Saly and her partner hurl insults at one another:

Him: You're stupid!

Saly: [with devastating logic] Well, you're going to marry me. So you're marrying a stupid person. So that makes you stupid too!

One-nil to her, in my opinion. And then, of course, there are three or four telephone 're-plays' of each argument to Saly's friends and family.

Saly: [on the phone to a friend or relative] So I told Gary, I told him right out: "Well, you're going to marry me... so that makes you stupid too!" And he couldn't say much to that, could he?

But happily, like squalls at sea, Saly's disputes are quickly over. Gary arrived with a peace-offering the next morning. "I've brought you a decent breakfast," he announced cheerily.

Saly was all smiles. "Ooh," she said, opening the paper bag. "I love Burger King."

Perhaps Saly's only flaw is a propensity to spurn her headphones, and watch television at full volume. And then to leave it blaring away while she pops outside for a ciggie. We're both too privacy-conscious to mess with her TV remote, so we often end up hearing Days of Our Lives at maximum loudness. And, frankly, we don't need Days of Our Lives when we've got Saly.

A slight (but lingering) sense of journalistic ethics prevents me from giving a detailed description of this morning's dramatic events -- but here is a hypothetical scenario that you may wish to contemplate. Imagine being in hospital, and having two of your fiancé's ex-girlfriends turn up to visit you at the same time. What question would you consider suitable for an impromptu debate? (Hint: which of the two ex-girlfriends gave your fiancé genital warts?)

Saly is likeable, perplexing, brave, kind-hearted, and slightly outrageous. It's sometimes hard to remember that she's not in hospital to provide us with light entertainment; but, rather, because she's dangerously ill. And that she, like everyone else in here, is homesick, lonely, frightened, and just wants to leave as soon as possible -- with a healthy baby.

NOTE: Some names have been changed in this account, and certain events have been slightly altered in order to conceal the identity of the individuals involved.

When spending time with my nieces or nephew, I am often frustrated in my attempts to point out interesting or educational features of the landscape. A typical encounter might go like this:

Me: Oh look, a three-legged dog!

Niece or Nephew: [excitedly] Where?

Me: Just there, where I'm pointing.

Niece or Nephew: [looking in completely the wrong place] I don't see it!

Me: Just right there, on the other side of the road -- right where I'm pointing.

Niece or Nephew: [looking everywhere but where I'm pointing] I still don't see it!

[Dog hobbles out of sight]

Me: It's gone now.

Niece or Nephew: [disappointed] Oh, I missed it...

But I find myself on the other side of the conversation when it comes to sightings of my own offspring:

Jennifer: Oh, the baby's kicking...

Me: [excitedly] Where?

Jennifer: Just put your hand there -- do you feel it?

Me: No.

Jennifer: What about there -- you must feel that! I can even see it moving.

Me: [neither seeing nor feeling any movement at all] Er...

Jennifer: Oh, it's stopped now...

And the ultrasound scans of our unborn child are, if anything, even more frustrating:

Technician: As you can see, this is the baby's head...

Me: Where?

Technician: And here's an even better view of its nose and lips. Clear as day.

Me: The bit at the top left?

Technician: [exasperated] No, that's just a smudge on the screen -- the nose and lips are at the bottom right. [Turns to Jennifer] Surely you can see the nose and lips?

Jennifer: Well, maybe a hint of a lip.

[Technician leaves the room to print the image]

Me: Could you really see the baby's lip?

Jennifer: I only said it because I felt sorry for the technician.

Despite the invisibility of our baby (except, of course, for the enormous bump protruding from Jennifer's midriff) it still manages to make its presence felt. In the manner of a dysfunctional ex-couple who communicate through their lawyer, the baby and I exchange information via Jennifer. For example:

Jennifer: The baby wants fish and chips for dinner.

Me: Can the baby wait until I've finished watching Top Gear?

Jennifer: The baby says no.

Over the past few months the baby's demands have become increasingly forceful, and have included requests to:

• Straighten pictures which are annoying the baby because they're crooked.
• Make midnight visits to the 24-hour petrol station to procure salt & vinegar crisps for the baby.
• Cook a "delicious pudding" for the baby.
• Buy the baby a 10 megapixel camera with 6X optical zoom.

Despite the baby's expensive taste in camera equipment -- and obvious megalomaniac tendencies -- I find that I have become rather fond of it. Somewhere along the line we seem to have become a family. When we go to sleep at night, I give Jennifer a kiss, and say: "Goodnight, Jennifer". And then I give the bump on her stomach a little pat, and say: "Goodnight, baby".

Which is why recent developments have been rather distressing. Last week the midwife took Jennifer's blood pressure, and said: "Hmm... it's probably nothing, but I'll just send you for some medical tests".

Then she looked at the test results, and said: "It's probably nothing, but I'll just send you to a specialist". The specialist took some more blood, and said: "Well, it's probably nothing, but I'll just put you in hospital for 24 hours of observation."

And at the end of the 24 hours, when I was ready to take Jennifer home, the hospital registrar gave a merry laugh, and said: "Don't be silly -- you can't take her home. Not in her condition." And so, for the past few days, I've been turning up at the maternity ward first thing in the morning.

Jennifer is instantly recognizable as the only patient sitting up in bed and doing statistical analysis on a laptop. I'm always very pleased to see her, and she always looks pleased to see me too -- which cheers me up no end. At ten o'clock in the evening the midwife commandant turfs me out, and I go home to bed.

The idea of hospitalization is to keep the baby in the womb for as long as possible. Sometimes it looks as though it will stay inside, and sometimes not. It changes from hour to hour. Of course, a premature delivery wouldn't really be a serious concern at our stage in proceedings, as the baby would require only the mildest level of neonatal care.

But still, I must confess, it's all a bit of a worry...