Junior Assistant

This week one of Cicero’s distaff co-workers paid a surprise visit to the Cave which is where Cicero earns his bawbees. Surprising because said co-worker was supposed to be enjoying a well-earned rest for a year and all the privileges that go with it as she had decided to become a mater.

And because she was now a mater it goes without saying that Junior had to be brought into the Cave and passed around from hand to hand as if she had, unlike the Angles from this land, just won the World Cup. It was interesting to see her baby paraded and treated as a trophy.

Now Cicero does not expect child rearing woman to leave Junior at home while they pay flying visits to their Caves to catch up with erstwhile co-workers. He knows that there are laws against this kind of thing. But why do distaffs think that it is perfectly acceptable to bring Junior into the Cave? And why do other distaffs feel the need to ooooh and aaaaah and make baby noises just because they have.

A Cave is a place of work. It is not a maternity ward or a nursery or a crèche. It is a place of work. It is a place of creativity and imagination. It is place where money is made. It is not a place for Juniors who lack the ability to speak intelligible words, or to move their limbs in syncopated fashion, or even feed themselves. (Although on reflection in this Cave it is unusual to get many co-workers who can do all three either.)

And why do people think that anyone might even be interested in your offspring. Although given the numbers, all distaffs, who crowd around Junior, making all sorts of weird and strange noises, it is clear that many do. Ice maidens who have the power to reduce people to gibbering wrecks with an arch of an eyebrow melt away at the sight of a nappy clad mini human and go all emotional and hormonal. Why?

Madam, this is your baby. It is not mine. We understand you are a proud mummy but please keep this between yourself, the baby and its pater. It involves no one else so there is no need to inflict your happiness, pride and smug ‘see-what-I-have-produced’ look on others.

It is like looking at other people’s holiday photos. It is your holiday. Not ours. It means nothing to us. You have the memories. Not us. We do not want to know how much you saved compared to the people on the next sun bed; how absolutely divine the hotel and the food was; how you met this lovely couple who lived 17 streets away from your auntie.

And that how it is for Cicero and Juniors in the Cave.

Cicero really doesn’t get and understand women. Never did. Unlikely ever will.

Sis felix. Et sis fortunatus.