I like to pay attention to what Peaches Geldof is doing. Not because I think she’s interesting or special – as far as I can tell, she’s mostly just famous for being the daughter of Sir Bob Geldof… does she do other things? I don’t know. But, being of a similar age, I feel like Peaches and I are negotiating similar obstacles, so I like to know what she’s up to. At age 23, Peaches has managed to write a dreadfully pretentious column for Nylon magazine (“The sun glows a burned orange as it sinks behind a skyscraper, a car horn screeches irritably, the wind whistles through the acres of willows in Central Park: New York, the most offbeat and eccentric city in America, is my new home.”…oh, honey…no.. .) , get some really awful tattoos, have nude photos and stories of hard drug use hit the internet, be married twice and produce a child.
I mean, I can’t really comment on the tattoo gambit, cos of the three that I have, two of them look like they were done in prison with a ballpoint pen and a cassette player, but other than that, what Peaches has essentially done is give me a check list of everything I don’t want to have happened to me by age 23. Especially the whole “married with children” part.
So that’s why what happened the other day is so brilliant (by ‘brilliant’, I of course mean ‘awful’). Four months ago, Peaches gave birth to a son with her current husband, Thomas Cohen (lead singer of the band, S.C.U.M… the ideal candidate for fatherhood, really). They named it Astala, which is just kind of cruel really. But I suppose when you come from a family who names their children Peaches and Pixie, you’ve got to get your revenge somehow. Anyway, the other day she dropped the baby and, thank goodness, someone was around to photograph it.
I’m not posting this because I think that Peaches is terrible mother. She actually looks kind of concerned (as concerned as she can look, anyway… I’m not entirely sure she’s able to muster a full range of facial expressions). I also think, at some point, most parents lose a grip on their kid. At one stage during my early years my own mother became convinced that she’d lost me. After 15 minutes of frantic searching, turns out I’d just rolled under the chaise lounge. It doesn’t make them bad people, it makes them tired parents with a lot going on. The bit that gets me about this is that SHE MANAGES NOT TO DROP HER PHONE! No attempt is made at a two-handed effort at stopping the stroller (or pram, depending on your geographic location) from going over. And then, when she rushes round to try and pick the kid up, she doesn’t hang up. She just keeps talking.
I would have loved to be on the other end of that conversation. “Oh shit!” “What was that crash?” “Nothing, babe. Just like, dropped the baby or something.” “Oh… it’s OK, yeah?” “Yeah. Phone’s OK too.” “Oh good.” It’s just such a bizarre thing to look at I don’t even really know what to say about it. Nothing screams “not quite ready for parenthood” louder than talking on the phone whilst disentangling your child from mangled remains of his flipped over baby buggy.
So, what did I learn about my life today? I quite like my phone. It’s one of my few luxury items and it’s permanently stuck to my hand because I’m constantly using it for something/ everything. When faced with a scenario, possibly involving a baby, where I may be forced to drop the phone, I would probably try to avoid doing so. Having said that, I’ve dropped the damned thing about a million times and it has a cracked screen. At this stage in my life, I should probably not be allowed to have a baby. That is what I have learned from Peaches. (I should also learn to stop learning my major life lessons from paparazzi photos of babies on the ground.)
One last thing: has anyone else noticed that Peaches tends to date/marry men who look like her dad?
Note: I’m only laughing at this because the baby is fine. Despite doing backflips into the cement he is unharmed.