New life

Tagging along to the zoo

Zenga Longmore

For an original and delightful birthday treat, it was decided that Clawhammer Jones Bingo's son Adam should be taken to the zoo. Save for rottweilers and pi- geons, London boys are starved of animal life, so Clawhammer felt that a long gaze at beasts residing in concrete cells would in some way soften his son's soul. My fate and Olumba's were thus sealed.

On the Sunday of his eighth birthday, Adam was duly delivered to my flat, and with a hurried 'be good' was ushered into the living-room. The day got off to an unnerving start when Adam announced he was no longer to be addressed as Adam, but as Stickleback.

'Stickleback?'

'That's my name, don't wear it out. I'm a member of the Brixton Massive now, so we all gotta have a tag name, innit.' So saying, the stickled one twirled his gold chain, flapper-style. Olumba winced. The boy was wearing a heady ensemble of green and red denim, seven-league trainers and a Stanley Holloway cap turned back to front.

Fashion, no longer the despot of the teenager, now rules the lives of very small children (and the purses of their parents). The modern six-year-old's school life is rendered unendurable unless he or she can appear in the season's latest designer train- er. It is to be hoped that dolls will once more be in vogue by the time Omalara reaches tantrum age.

But back to Stickleback's birthday treat.

It was only after we had travelled for two hours on buses and were outside the zoo's entrance that we realised we were £2 short of the entrance fee. 'There's only one thing for it,' I told Stickleback, who had set up a whine that he hadn't wanted to come to the flippin' zoo in the first place. 'I'll carry Omalara, and you go into the pushchair and pretend to be a baby. Then we won't have to pay for you.'

Stickleback opened his mouth and closed it again — an expression highly reminiscent of his piscine namesake.

`Oh go on, Stickleback, be a sport. All you have to do is suck your thumb and dribble.'

`No way, man, no way! What if one of my posse from the Brixton Massive sees me? I'd be so shamed up I'd have to change schools!'

I looked at Olumba. Olumba jumped back. 'I couldn't! Chai! Na buggy 'e go break under my weight-o. You go zoo, I dey wait small time for park.'

`Tell you what,' suggested Stickleback brightly, 'why don't you lot go in, and /'// wait in the park? I mean there's nothing to do in a zoo, is there? All it is is a load of boring old animals. Call this a birthday? Couldn't you have bought me a Schwartz KZ ski jacket instead? With this admonishment ringing in our ears, we decided to placate the unjustly treated child by giving the zoo a miss. Instead we took a walk through the park. Regent's Park abounded with babies of every nationality, affording me a good opportunity for research. Do babies babble in the accent of their country? Do French babies say `ga-ga' with a Gallic twang — `gau-guin', for example? Or have German babies a more gutteral 'ach-gah'? My curiosity remained unsatisfied. The high level of Omalara's brand of babble silenced all those around her.

Stickleback was bought hot dogs measureless to man at £1.70 a throw. Olumba and I gazed in horror as the flaccid frankfurters were fished from tepid grey slime. Stickleback fell upon them with cries of happiness. Wiping a mess of mustard and tomato ketchup from his lips, he murmured a satisfied `wickaaad'.

Omalara clapped her hands. Stickle- back's birthday had been a success.