Going soft

I've recently been accused of "going soft", following a particularly humourless blonk about a sleeping boyfriend. Well, you could be right. It's true that the other day I experienced my first pangs of "broodiness", when I clocked a rather handsome Icelandic man pushing a designer buggy down the street. He also happened to be wearing a pair of aviators – my absolute favourite eye-wear on a man ever, next to pirates' patches.

Broody pangs increased tenfold when the rather handsome man reached into said designer buggy and took out a tiny, tiny, tiny little baby with just the one hand (I mean, he only needed to use the one hand, not that the baby itself only had the one hand. That would be weird). He held it protectively to his chest whilst slowly removing the aviators — so he could get a better look at how much female attention he was attracting, I suppose. Beautiful father/child duo looked like they'd stepped out of one of those terrible black & white posters from the 80s, do you remember them? Other popular choices included slick red Ferarris, fluffy wide-eyed kittens, and shiny topless girls in denim cut-offs — all available at your high-street greeting card shop.

Regardless, the sight of this double-act must have evoked some kind of hormonal rection in me, as that night in Kaffibarinn I drunkenly slurred in Bjarni's ear, "I want your baby". Luckily for me, the slurring, combined with Kanye West's Gold Digger, meant that he must have heard it as "I want you, baby" as he agreed that he wanted me too, baby, and should we grab a box of condoms and catch an early night?

Phew. Of course, I don't actually want a baby at all. Pfft. What I want is three awards at Cannes, several cosmopolitans, and one of those terrible black & white posters from the 80s. I wonder if they still have them in production...