Spring is here. I know this, not because of the very pretty daffodils which are just emerging into bloom by the front door, nor even by the very London way of knowing it's spring - 'when you come out of the tube from work it's still light!' says my excited husband, but because of the nudist.
Opposite our house is another house with a very large bay window, with no curtains at all. In the room within, clearly visible to anyone passing (and especially to us) is an old lady nudist. When we first arrived I thought she was wearing a nude-coloured sarong before we realised no, she was actually naked. In winter, perhaps feeling the cold a bit (as you do in old age), she covers up, but today is a warm day and there she is, all naked again.
My baby would like her. He, too, is a nudist. He is very happy to be undressed, delighted to wear nothing but a nappy, ecstatic at bath-time when he gets to wear nothing at all, and utterly livid when we dress him again afterwards. He grumbles at the nappy, starts to complain more loudly when we put on the vest, screams when the babygro goes on top. The very first photo of him, newly snatched from the womb, shows him lying on a hospital table, wearing only a nappy, his first ever clothes waiting by his side. He is howling, face scarlet with rage, hands in fists. He will be delighted when warm days arrive and he can wear nothing at all in the garden.
Until then, he will have to be jealous of the old lady nudist.
Opposite our house is another house with a very large bay window, with no curtains at all. In the room within, clearly visible to anyone passing (and especially to us) is an old lady nudist. When we first arrived I thought she was wearing a nude-coloured sarong before we realised no, she was actually naked. In winter, perhaps feeling the cold a bit (as you do in old age), she covers up, but today is a warm day and there she is, all naked again.
My baby would like her. He, too, is a nudist. He is very happy to be undressed, delighted to wear nothing but a nappy, ecstatic at bath-time when he gets to wear nothing at all, and utterly livid when we dress him again afterwards. He grumbles at the nappy, starts to complain more loudly when we put on the vest, screams when the babygro goes on top. The very first photo of him, newly snatched from the womb, shows him lying on a hospital table, wearing only a nappy, his first ever clothes waiting by his side. He is howling, face scarlet with rage, hands in fists. He will be delighted when warm days arrive and he can wear nothing at all in the garden.
Until then, he will have to be jealous of the old lady nudist.
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