I was working on my story when this kid walked into the cafe. He was carrying textbooks and a stethoscope.

The seat next to me was empty. The books were unopened and he didn't have a phone.

"Medical School," he tells me. "So much to learn."

"I always loved Biology," I nod and smile. It’s okay to talk, a cafe is not just for working.

"How about you?" he asks.

I can see he’s looking at the manuscript in my hand, filled with markings and corrections.

"Novels and books for children," I show him the cover. "Getting ready to publish in time for Christmas."

"That’s a dream …"

He looks a little lost. As if anything ever changes.

"Yup," is all I can say. Never guessed I’d end up here. “I tried a lot of things after university. So many jobs … then I got married, we moved to London. You wake up one day and the world is different.”

Part 1

It’s definitely not an illusion - younger women have been noticing me in the street. Not sure why but for the past few days I’ve been picking up expressions that are a curious mixture of pity and incredulity. My best guess is that it’s something to do with clothes.

Dressing isn’t usually high on my list of priorities because I’m a stay-at-home dad with a sideline in novels and children’s books, and most of my time is spent running between schools. The week has been trickier than usual with my wife away on a business trip and no-one at home to give advice except the kids.
I’m not complaining. Rosie has this proper job; right now she’s at the firm’s annual conference in France which is a big deal and this year her standing is high enough for me to be invited to the dinner after the final session. Work for her but a treat for me and I’m looking forward to doing something a little different. From nowhere I seem to have developed a manageable ambition: for this one weekend, I won’t be scruffy.

Okay, soon I’ll be on the train to Paris. I’ve made arrangements for a neighbour to look after the dogs and grandparents are installed to take care of the children. Doesn’t matter what I wear for the journey but when I arrive I’ll get myself looking smart.

All goes well until I get to the last school drop-off where I discover I’ve forgotten to tie my son’s laces.  As I bend down, the unwelcome sound of my trousers tearing announces that I’m in trouble. Now, I may be shabby and untidy but you wouldn’t normally catch me wearing ripped jeans. As a matter of principle I can’t stand this business of rich people pretending to be poor. As discretely as I can, I check on the state of my 501s. There’s a flash of colour. Forget the naked expression of knees, the crotch of my jeans has gone and it’s only boxer shorts that are saving the world from an outrageous display. Today of all days.  

A deep breath. It’s okay. I make the decision not to panic. The train leaves at midday so there’s plenty of time for me to stop off and buy a new pair. I don’t know how long Levis have been making 501s but when I discovered buying clothes-by-number it made life a whole lot easier.  I’m so relaxed I can still get a coffee with the mums. I didn’t imagine it this way but we see each other all the time and I’ve made a friends over the years.

Part 2

This morning the conversation is much the same as always. How was the weekend? Homework piling up but thank god it’s nearly holidays. Last month our world was disturbed by a couple of beta-mums arguing in the street. It’s taken a while  but everything has settled down. I’m used to being the only man at school gatherings and these ladies are kind. Am I doing anything interesting? They know I was once a doctor but I’ve never told anyone about my writing. Off to Paris, I tell them, for dinner with my wife. It’s a party at the Opera.

“Ooh, sounds romantic,” the usual teasing.

Only three of us left in the café.

Black tie, big outing for me.

“What’s she wearing?”

I know enough about shoes and designers to get by. And I tell them about all the arrangements; I came by cab this morning because I’ll going directly to the station once I’ve bought a pair of jeans. I’ve been careful while I sit, they don’t need to know the reason.

“Jeans? What kind?”

“501s, same as always,” I’m feeling so relaxed, almost like a holiday.

One of the ladies grabs my arm to make sure I don’t get up. A quick look across to her friend and I can see they’re in agreement. She signals to the waiter to bring another round of coffees.

“We have to talk.”

I’m sitting across the table, watching the nudges going back and forth. I’ve got to get to the shop soon, I don’t want to miss the train.

 “It’s not as simple as you think,” no.1 is telling me. This is Pam, makeup in archeographic layers and a mass of curly hair.

“Don’t worry,” I reassure her. “I know my size. I’ve been wearing the same thing for years.”

I know it’s come out wrong, just today I have a deadline.

“Don’t rush into anything,” the smaller one suggests. Tilda. Maybe I should have said petite.

“I’m only buying jeans, it’s a uniform,” I hear myself saying.

This is starting to feel like an interrogation. Or maybe more like therapy; except these are things I don’t need to share.

“Exactly,” Tilly says. “That’s the problem.”

“Like those Chinese peasants in the Cultural Revolution,” Pam grimaces. “Seriously, I can’t understand why straight men are so resistant to having fun. You guys would feel better if you’d let go and be a bit gay.”

They’re losing me now. The point is that I don’t want to think about clothes. I’d go to a movie or play tennis if I wanted to enjoy myself. Even better, I could have slow a breakfast and read the papers. That’s a luxury I really miss.

“It’s fine, I’ll wear chinos,” I tell them.

“What kind? What colour?... You can’t wear a shirt like that, and what about shoes? You’ll have to change completely. Come on, stand up. Let’s have a look at you.”

It’s already embarrassing. I get up very carefully.

Pamela doesn’t quite roll her eyes but it’s close. She turns to her friend, who is my friend too. Or so I thought.

“Tills, I’m late. Send him to Selfridges, at least there’ll be someone on hand to help. Obviously the wrong day but since it’s is an emergency…”

Tilly just smiles. She’s a little calmer, quite pretty, with four children. The youngest is with my eldest… Funny, I’ve just realised she never talks about life before her kids and I don’t know if she works. At the moment all I’m sure about is that she’s laughing, and clearly it’s at me.

“If you could see your face,” she reaches into her bag for a tissue to dry her eyes. “It’s not so bad and Pam’s completely over the top but I agree with her about the 501s. For most women, urban cowboy is not a good look. If you asked Rosie, I’m sure she’d agree.”

She looks at me carefully, obviously trying to gauge my reaction.

“There’ll be more choice at Selfridges. 2^nd floor, they have concessions,” she can see I’m wavering.

“If it can’t be Levi’s, I won’t know what to do.”

“You know your size,” she reminds me. “Have a look, just go and see.”

Part 3

That was nearly an hour ago. Now I’m preparing to navigate a circle of purgatory without a clue about where to start.

The Men’s department in Selfridges is huge, the size of an aircraft hangar and there aren’t many customers. The various stalls are supposed to have their own music but every one of them is playing a variation of the same thing. Boom Boom Boom, Let’s go back to my room. I can’t believe Tilly and Pam sent me here. It’s not just the music, every manikin is dressed in blue denim. I’ve counted 15 brands so far. To be truthful, they look identical.

I walk around for a bit without making progress. I want to phone Rose but I’m still hanging on to the idea of surprising her with a demonstration of elegant independence. Anyway, I know she can’t take random calls unless it’s a real emergency. Like the day with the cashmere jumpers and our washing machine. There was nothing she could do but I knew it was better to confess immediately – today’s problem isn’t quite in the same category.

I’m still wandering around without a coherent plan. Weirdly, when I look up, I find myself standing at the Levi’s counter. It must be fate and I find myself experiencing a minor revelation. The brands all look the same and nobody’s going to see me on the train. Which means I can just buy 501s! Great.

There’s no reason for me to tell anyone. Not Rosie, not Tilly and not Pam. I can’t help smiling because it’s such an obvious solution. Next time, when I’m not in a rush, I’ll be able to work on their advice. Selfridges isn’t so bad after all. Quite convenient to have everything in one place.

At the till, behind the counter, there are two men and a woman who must be in management because she’s asking questions and making notes on a clipboard. One of the guys looks pretty normal even if he’s a little older. The other? Well, obviously he’s normal too but his version of ordinariness includes a shaven head, bushy beard and tattoos for added colour. Also he’s wearing a cut-off shirt suitable for a bodybuilder’s demonstration. I’m sure he’s happy with his look but it’s not friendly or welcoming. Basically it’s a style that tells people like me that we should shop online. I can’t think about that now. Levis, 501, in regular denim is what I need. I time my approach to the counter so that I’ll be served by the more conventional-looking salesperson.

“No problem,” he says. “Noooo problem. Always plenty of stock. I’m wearing 501s too.”

The man is looking for my size and telling me this brand is fundamentally superior. He’s elegant and stylish, works in this huge store at the cutting edge of fashion so the school-gate crew obviously don’t know everything.

“Do you only wear Levi’s?” I find myself asking.

I’m wondering if managers disapprove when salesmen don’t wear jeans to match their stall. It’s obvious my comment is too flippant. My guide has a different world view and I can see it’s no accident that he ended up in this particular line of work. Levi’s, he explains again, are special and he can chart every major life event by the trousers he was wearing. It’s clear he’s a true believer. If I’m honest, the devotion seems a little over the top. Before he’s done I’ve heard everything including the next stage of his life’s journey.

“I chose this pair today because…” he’s talking but I’m not listening anymore. He doesn’t seem to notice so it must be okay. He’s found my jeans and leads me towards the changing cubicles.

“I don’t need to try them on,” I tell him. “I always buy these in the same size.”

Apparently that’s not the way things are done. The fabric is constantly being redesigned and there could be individual variations.

It’s okay, I’m not late – this is what I’m thinking – and the man is trying. People protest about poor service and, here I am, getting detailed advice.

“Thanks,” I follow him to the fitting room. “I like the heavy fabric. In fact, I’m sure I’ve had a pair like this before. The only problem was that when I washed them they shrank in a funny way.”

“You what?” the look is pure incredulity.

“I washed them?” I say more hesitantly. I’m a parent, life is full of messy events and I don’t need the world decoding my exploits through random stains on a trouser leg.

He takes the jeans back.

“No,” I say. “I want them. I’ll try them on. I have a train to catch.”

“I am sorry, sir, my fault entirely,” he’s talking very carefully.

By now we’re back at the shelves and he’s rifling through the folded stacks until he finds another pair.

“Try these. 512. Can you find your way to the dressing room?”

Part 4

What is going on? Midmorning in a changing booth when I should be on the way to Paris. There are mirrors everywhere, the lighting is brutal and my world seems to be spinning out of control. Even the once-friendly salesman is treating me with contempt. I take off my old jeans and pull on the new pair.

512s look okay but my confidence has disappeared. Am I supposed to step out and show the sales guy? Is that what people do?

I look at my phone. I’ll call Rose. I’m about to press her number when I realise how bad that could be. She might be in the middle of a speech, her phone will ring … As the avenue closes off, a new idea pops into my head. I take the phone, search for Tilly’s number, looking at myself in the mirror with the phone to my ear. I’ve never spoken to the mums about personal problems. I imagine it happens a lot between women but as a man I’m not really in that deep.

“Alan? How are you? Everything okay?” she already knows it’s me. We all have each other’s numbers stored in case of an emergency.

“Um, Tilly, are you busy?” I say nervously. “I could do with some advice.”

Obviously I’m trying to play it down but a conversation like this is very unusual. In the past we’ve spoken about missing homework or lost jumpers. Last time it was probably a cricket bat.

“Fire away,” she says. “Did you get what you need?”

“That’s what I wanted to ask about. You’re not near still near Oxford Street are you?”

“Yup,” she says. “Killing time before I meet my mother-in-law.”

“Is there any chance you could help me? I’m a little stuck.”

There’s no sound at the other end of the line.

I take a quick glance at the screen to make sure we’re still connected.

 “Alan… You’re in Selfridges? Is that right?”

“You said no Levis but I’ve got myself caught,” I whisper into the phone. “The salesman is a bit strange.”

“You want me to come to the changing room to see if your new jeans fit?” her voice is muffled, she could be laughing. “I feel like I’m 16 and my boyfriend’s best mate has tried to kiss me behind the bike shed.”

What?

“You’re a nice guy, Alan, but what do you think my husband would say?”

“Oh.” Yes, can I see now. It’s a bit tricky.

“Even picturing you in the changing room… it’s only jeans, you’ll be fine.”

“Of course, right. Sorry to have been so stupid.”

“You’re sweet. Your wife is lucky to have you,” she’s still laughing as she signs off.

You know what? I’m going to get the 501s and be on my way. Then I remember the style police won’t authorise a sale. That means I’ll have to go with the 512s. They look okay and anyway I want a pair that can be washed. The phone rings as I start taking the jeans off because I haven’t paid.

It’s awkward trying to hold the phone to my ear with my shoulder while I hop around. The phone falls, I reach, catch it, juggle for a moment. Leave it on the chair.

“Hold on, give me a moment and I’ll put you on speaker.”

The legs in this skinny style are tighter than the 501s and it’s a bit of a struggle. There’s no sound from the phone. Must’ve gone, lost the connection.

Finally, they’re off. I’ll have to put the old, ripped pair on to pay at the counter, then I can come back to change. The only trouble is that when I reach for the trousers on the chair, my phone is on top and someone is looking at me on the screen.

FaceTime?  

“Tilly? How long have you been there?”

“Long enough to know you need help,” she won’t stop smiling. “Don’t worry, Alan, you know I’m never going to talk about this and neither are you.”

I don’t even need to nod. I can’t believe this. Here I am, in this luminous cubicle with floor to ceiling mirrors on three sides.

“Good legs, Al,” she says just to remind me how exposed I should be feeling.

Oh god, oh god, is all I can think.

“Well?” she’s waiting for me to do something.

“I am so sorry. Let me get dressed and I’ll call you back.”

There’s no way this could be more embarrassing. I can see from the screen that she’s in a café, cup of coffee in her hand.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she’s telling me. “I’m forty-four, that’s older than you, and I’ve got four kids so you know there’s nothing I haven’t seen. Now, put the jeans on and take off your shirt otherwise we won’t know if they fit.”

I could break the connection.

“What did you think I was going to do when you asked me to come down to help you? Hang around outside and listen to your description through the door? If I came, I’d be in there with you.”

I’m think I must have frozen. It’s not clear how much time has passed.

“Alan,” she says eventually. “I thought you had to catch a train.”

When it comes to planning for the arrival of our son, my wife does a birthing plan and my only task, as far as I can tell, is to look after the overnight suitcase she’s planning to take to the hospital.

The waiting is nerve-wracking and with nothing else to contribute I start worrying that I’ll forget something or get it wrong. Every day I check religiously but that little case never changes. Same clothes, pyjamas, toiletries, and of course there’s stuff for our soon-to-be-born son. I discover that the best solution is for me to have my own bag packed so I’m ready when we need to set off.

Milly deals with most of the essentials so I get together a selection of treats. We've never done this before and it's not clear what might be appropriate. After all, it won't be like going on holiday ... I end up with chocolates and a jar of the special foot cream. Really it's not much but what else is there for a man to do?

This morning, Milly is up early saying she can’t sleep. When I open my eyes, she looks tired and worried so of course I get worried too. It's still dark outside but I put the kettle on, run a bath for her which turns out to be a good idea. And there she is, looking a little more relaxed.

I bring a chair into the bathroom so we can chat, sipping my tea when I see … what is that? Her stomach has changed shape, sort of bulging and rippling.

'Milly?'

She's not saying anything but I already know. In the movies the husband always times the period between contractions. Is that what I'm supposed to do?'

We have to go,' she tells me, the contraction has gone and she can speak. 

We live about five minutes from the hospital. When we talked about this, even before the birthing plan, we decided it would be best for us to walk. 

'Think I'm going to need a taxi.'  

Another contraction? Already?

We're lucky, the cab arrives within minutes and it's not long before we reach the Maternity Department. Don't worry, I've got the bag and I'm timing intervals with my phone – actually, it’s a role I'm playing from the movies because I can't remember a single thing from birthing classes.

Arriving in the delivery room is a little like dropping your partner on the launch pad and then being banished to a seat at the back of mission control. I'm not complaining, safety is all important and I'd rather the midwives are keeping my wife alive than holding my hand and offering tea. But that doesn't make it any less stressful.

I try to tell them about the timings but they don't think it’s important anymore. There are machines recording everything about mother and baby, and hospital workers popping in and out. Milly seems okay though, smiling at me as she squeezes my hand. What am I thinking as I sit in the labour ward? Honestly, I don't know. Love? Desperate worry? I seem to have lost the power of coherent thought.

I might be wondering where my mind has gone but Milly doesn't have time for such nonsense. I'm starting to realise that birthing classes were a guide in the same way that reading a brochure about the Olympics counts as preparation for running a marathon. Actually, childbirth seems more like weightlifting or wrestling. She's pretty tiny, my dear wife, and I didn't realise labour would be so much work.

I feel useless with my glass of ice cubes and my little wet towel to mop her brow. In between contractions I've started thinking about how long it might take. There were stories circulating at the classes about somebody's three-day labour. Is that actually possible? And why is there so much pain?

Then there's a sound from one of the monitors, gentle pinging, like a message on a mobile phone. A second midwife walks into the room. They look at the machine and check Milly's blood pressure with one of those old fashioned cuffs. One minute ago we were all full of anticipation and Milly seemed fine. Now, when I look down, she's pale, not talking.

The nurse reaches across me to push a bell and it takes about 10 seconds for two more to arrive. And someone pushes in a trolley, like Casualty or ER.

It's frightening watching things happen you've only seen on TV. The one thing I know is that I want to hold Milly's hand. Our baby isn't born yet so he hasn't got his name. Yesterday we decided he's going to be Sam ... but now I can't even stand near them because there are doctors everywhere. Drips in both arms and an anaesthetist is holding an oxygen mask over her face. She's not looking at me as they wheel her bed out of the room for an emergency caesarean.

And they're gone. The room is so empty and quiet which is a bit like how I feel inside - probably it's only a minute before a nurse comes to get me, then we're running for the operating theatre so I can change my clothes.

There's so much to take in when I step through the door. Milly is unconscious, blood transfusion going into one arm. I'm still not thinking straight and all I can hear is crying, desperate crying.

'Congratulations,' the nurse says. 'Come and meet your baby. Do you want to hold him?

Oh God!

I look across to Milly. She's still asleep but Sam is yelling. The surgeon gives a thumbs up and anaesthetist is smiling - there's no need for them to speak.

---

reprinted from GoodtoKnow (Essentials Magazine) - May 2016

http://www.goodtoknow.co.uk/family/546089/what-men-think-when-their-partner-is-in-labour

This morning, for the first time in weeks, I’m going back to the toddler group.

Milly, that’s my wife, has had time off work so she’s been doing all the fun things with our son. In our area, the Friday gathering in the church hall is the highlight of the week.

I’m not late today and there’s room to park the buggy. Sam thinks he’s independent and runs for the door. I grab my bag of snacks, don't forget the milk, nappies and a change of clothing, and set off in pursuit.

“Is Mills back at work?” one of the pretty ladies asks when I step through the door. She has four girls and each one is dressed in their own particular style. Two wearing skirts, one is a ballerina and the eldest is wearing dungarees.  Also various combination of plaits, pigtails and loose, untidy hair.

“Hi. Yes, she went back yesterday. Did she call you?”

“No,” Liz is laughing. This is Milly’s best friend from antenatal group and the months until the office called her back. “We always know when you’re in charge.”

Oh god, it’s the clothes again. I’ve been trying to learn about colour combinations for Sam’s uniform of jeans and t-shirt. Obviously still doing it wrong.

“Doesn’t matter,” she tells me. “Get yourself a coffee. Come and join us.”

I know it’s not important but Sam will be 2 years old soon, everything he’s wearing is from Gap so it should be easy. Milly had an early meeting otherwise I would have asked.

 I get my lovely son settled with his favourite toy and by the time I find a seat the mums are in full flow. When I first started coming, I’d get the impression they were editing themselves because there was a man in the conversation. Different now. After a few months of caesarean sections and discussions about aching breasts they know I can deal with anything. Anyway, today the chat is all birthing plans and it’s not long before they want my opinion. What do men actually think? During labour, is what they’re asking.

“Gentleman can only think about making sex.” This is Veronica, outspoken Italian who’s never going to let a foreign language get in the way.

They’re all laughing but it’s not at me. It’s fun being here and these ladies are good company. What was I doing when Milly was in hospital? I was worried, that’s mostly what I remember. Through all the months of pregnancy I spent my time anticipating terrible things in the hope they wouldn’t happen. Then, in the labour ward, the nurses didn’t seem attentive.

“Don’t panic,” I hear myself saying.

The mothers are looking at me in surprise. I must have drifted into my thoughts. Not sure how long they’ve been waiting for me to speak.

“I wanted to ask for help but I’m not religious. I suppose I just held my breath and hoped for the best. Turned out more or less okay except I was surprised how unsympathetic midwives can be.” I take a deep breath, never told anyone this before.

“Bit different from my husband then,” Liz tells us. “He phoned the restaurant across the road to ask for pudding.”

“Mine was asleep.” I think this mother’s name is Jane.

“You didn’t wake him?”

“Couldn’t. He was working crazy hours to have time off with us and the timing went wrong… It was fine, what could he have done anyway?”

Each one has a different story. Baby arriving in the bathtub, home deliveries with varying degrees of complication. One tells us her partner slipped on the wet floor when her waters broke and they ended up going to hospital in an ambulance. He wasn’t concussed but it was a big head wound and the stitching took a while. He was a father by the time he made it to her side.

It seems obvious to say but men are all different and I wasn’t the kind desperate to cut an umbilical cord. All I know is that birth is scary for an onlooker without much of a role to play – so, these husbands, partners or boyfriends, what are they thinking while they are hanging around the labour ward?

“Please, please let it turn out right.” That’s what it was for me. And please let the midwives pay attention.