A friend complained to me recently that while her new born baby was being showered with all sort os of fabulous gifts - not quite the white mink throw bestowed on the new Master Trump but hand knitted bonnets, cashmere crossover cardigans, silver trinkets, a gold charm bracelet with taxi, double decker bus and beefeater charms, a dotted and frilled swiss cotton romper suit and even some personalised Bond Street correspondence cards for its little thank you notes - she herself had been the recipient of not one thing. ‘No-one’s sitting up late into the night flashing their crochet hooks for me’, she pronounced mournfully. A nurse came in and handed her some pills and a water glass. She showed me the little stash of large ovoid pain killers that had accumulated in the drawer of her hospital night stand. ‘I’m keeping these’, she added,
‘ because it’s just so nice to be given something.’ I nodded. ‘It feels
like I’m the one doing all the work round here, and no-one seems to have noticed.’ I did understand, but was unsure what to advise. I cast my eyes about the room. There were some flowers, of course, but they were battling with the hospital’s high heating, and already past their best. I thought of reminding her that she was the last person on earth who’d be seen dead in handknits, but I could see it wasn’t the point. ‘It’s not that I’m being all me, me ,me, it’s just I feel a bit as though I don't exist. I tried to be sympathetic for
even sympathy was thin on the ground. ‘It’s your second baby’ her straight talking sister had scolded crossly the day before. ‘What do you want, a medal?
Nobody’s that bothered. Get over it.’

On my next visit to this friend I tried to think of a gift that might hit the spot. There were two obvious places to begin, something thoughtful that might make the next few weeks a little easier, such as the entire series of Brideshead Revisited on VHS which I bought recently in a cancer shop in Cornwall for 50p, or something completely unrelated to baby-life, something so glamorous and recherché that it laughed in the face of motherhood, relegating its importance to a minor family event, festive but not all-encompassing, such as pancake day.

A very elegant piece of make-up can be good in this instance, the sort of handbag essential that you didn't know you needed but can scarcely live without such as Guerlain’s cupidon lip pencil which with one deft manoeuvre transforms the meekest of mouths into a delectable and fulsome heart shaped pout. A pair of carefree holiday shoes would also fit the bill and make an exciting and original ‘baby’ gift. The quirky and elegant green and gold peep toe sandals on sale at Marks and Spencer’s for £35 would be welcomed by most spring/ summer mothers to be. They are the sort of shoes sported by my teenage nieces and their gorgeous slouchy friends on Saturday nights at their mysterious gatherings, about which they will reveal (to me) nothing.

The next day I returned to see my friend who seemed a little more sanguine. She had her sleeping baby in her arms and was crooning, ‘I’m in love, I’m in love, I’m in love.’ More flowers had come in- I rather suspected sent by h erself as they were so nice- and the air was thick with dolce vita roses and sweet peas and ranunculi. I set several pink and white packages before her and gave her the iced sticky bun she had requested.
‘ Wow, you look like you’re doing so well,’I said.
‘ Yeah, she’s an angel, no trouble at all.’ She kissed the baby’s head,
bit the nose off the bun and started unwrapping. There were three half bottles of pink (for a girl) champagne, the 6 novels by Elizabeth Taylor (intelligent, deeply sane, witty and soothing) that Virago has just reissued and a jar of Guerlain’s Midnight Secret, a miraculous light, sharp smelling face cream guaranteed to make you look as though you’ve had a full night’s sleep when yo
u’ve had anything but. I thought these gifts caught at what I was trying to express: combining as they did celebration, trepidation and sturdy real life all going on busily side by side. . She opened all the parcels eagerly and a look of deep amusement spread across her features.
‘What’, she said, with a small amount of real or feigned shock ‘nothing for the babe?’