The O2 is an event venue in London. It will be hosting Elton John’s final show at the end of May. It’s a massive structure—an oval white dome with yellow arms that are spaced around the rim and reach upward and outward at seventy-degree angles. I wonder at the intent of the design. Conceived in its creator’s mind, hours spent dreaming of it, visualizing it, sketching it, selling the concept. Big money poured into its making. Is it supposed to be attractive, innovative, quirky, functional? Eye-catching would be my guess, and if that’s the case it’s met the expectation.
I can see it from the window of my son and his wife’s flat, where I’ve come for no other reason than to spend time with my granddaughter, Clementine, who’s eight months old and adorable.
Sam suggests that we go see what’s happening at the O2. Not only is it a concert/sports arena, it also contains a mall, which unsurprisingly holds no surprises. What it does offer is an indoor walk on a rainy day, the energy that passes through a crowd, and lights and loud passing conversations to distract Clem, who’s happy in her stroller until suddenly she isn’t.
The next day, another outing. This time to the city center of Greenwich, home to the Old Royal Naval College and Greenwich Park, which is home to the Royal Observatory and crossed by the Greenwich Prime Meridian. Before going to the park we have lunch at a pub that seems to be a baby hub. At every table parents cater to their newborns and toddlers while, at the same time, managing to feed themselves and visit with the surrounding adults, who also have little ones. I find hanging with the thirty-somethings to be enlightening. For one thing, fathers are more involved with their offspring than they were when my generation was raising kids. But wait a minute, honing in on the dynamic, I see that the majority of the mothers have their eyes on their phones while the fathers manage the children. Based on my memories of being a young mother, I’m critical of the women—pay attention to your babies, your husband, your family. Be present!
On the other hand, perhaps this is daddy/baby bonding time and the wives have come along in case something comes up that the father can’t manage. What was I doing, judging? I have no way of knowing the truth of the matter unless I ask—and approaching one of these couples or groups and asking the mothers why they’re not participating, well, that’s not going to happen. Anyway, interesting.
After lunch, on the way to the park, we make our way through a wondrous outdoor market with booths offering artistic wares, like handmade cards, pashminas, jewelry, and muffins. On the periphery of the temporaries are more permanent retail businesses, and the window of one of these shops displays shoes with colorful finishes as opposed to shades of brown or black. I love shoes that offer variety. Going inside, I select an attractive pair of sandals that’re speckled with dots of red, green, blue, and yellow. I turn them upside down to get a gander at the price. A hundred and nine pounds! They’re awfully cute, and probably very comfortable. If we were talking dollars, I’d try them on and possibly buy them. In pounds, I walk away.
Greenwich Park is lovely. I’ve been here before, so this isn’t anything new, just a revisit to the vast green and hilly space along with a thousand other people on a bank holiday.
Before returning to the flat, we need to pick up some groceries, so we stop by Sainsbury’s, where I find the method of charging and paying to be tech-advanced—or maybe it isn’t; maybe it’s just that we’re not so cutting-edge in Marble Falls. As we enter, Sam picks up a scanning wand, and registers with an app on his phone. Then, after he selects an item, he scans it and puts it into his shopping bag. When he’s finished gathering, he goes to the self-checkout, enters the wand, and is given the total. So, scan as you go, bag as you go. No unnecessary transferring of items in and out of a cart. I do, however, see more opportunity for theft in this method. A person could simply not scan every item that goes in the bag. There seems to be a lot of trusting the customer.
The day after, a forest walk in Joyden’s Park in Bexley. Over time I’ve forgotten how much work it is slinging a baby in and out of a car, in and out of a stroller, how consuming a baby’s moods and needs can be. Taking this tiny being anywhere is a strenuous dance.
The trails of the park lead us over bumpy rocks and through slushy mud, but the pram is sturdy. For the first half of the walk the pram’s cover is down as Clem sleeps. Then, about twenty minutes in, we meet an elderly couple whose eyes light up when they see the pram. Depending on canes and leaning into one another for extra support, they slowly approach and come to a stop beside the pram. When they notice the cover, they turn impassive expressions upon Sam. After a few awkward seconds (Who are these people? Why are they stopping by our baby?) he grasps what’s expected of him and raises the cover. Surprised by the sunlight in her eyes, Clem blinks a few times, then peers up at the strangers who, of course, are stunned by her perfection.
On the streets of Greenwich.
You can see the pokey up things and the dome of the O2.
Darling Clementine!
