Low life | 6 August 2011

A new grandson, and a night in the pub

Grandson number two was delivered by caesarean section last week. Nine pounds. A boy. Clynton. He was plain Clinton to start with, but one of their more sophisticated friends suggested the alternative spelling and the suggestion was taken up. Of course the older relatives are either horrified or derisive. Ridiculous, they say, all these silly new children’s names. The world’s gone mad. What’s wrong with a good old traditional English name, like Arthur or George?

I’ve been pointing these reactionary spirits in the direction of our parish magazine. In the latest issue a correspondent listed some of the Christian names recorded in the Baptism register between 1836 and 1900. Hocaday, anyone? Or how about Mullis, Limbrey, Carwithin or Vavasour? Girls’ names included Asenath, Andromach, Keturah, Thirza, Cotton and Gratitude. Beside all those, Clynton sounds almost staid. Doubtless we’ll be calling him Clynt before long, anyhow. Let’s hope he grows up to be as good a shot as his famous Hollywood namesake.
Clynton makes five, all told, that my boy is responsible for feeding and clothing. He is still without a job, alas, and mired in debt. His only gainful employment is to drive his old man to the pub once a week and pick him up again afterwards.

As well as earning a few quid, he finds the job mildly entertaining. There was a time when I wouldn’t even let my dogs see me drunk. But I’ve let myself go a bit lately, and I think he finds the difference between the morose old git he drives into town and the burbling pantomime drunk he picks up four hours later amusing.
Last week he dropped me outside a pretty thatched country pub that was hosting a ‘blues session’.