A Christmas child is an 'inconceivable' gift

As if getting that little nancy-dog Jeffrey wasn't enough, Philippe now wants a baby. A real-life, puking, mewling, rash-constellated, bumcream-stinking, butternut-dribbling sprog.

When I pointed out the pitfalls of owning a human prat - no more Deep Heat nipple bashing to the Pet Shop Boys at the Bronx; no more 4am absinthe confessionals at his flat with dodgy German backpackers; no more clean clothes; no more five-hour breakfasts at Vida; no more time for back waxes - he said my family background was clouding my judgment and it was evident a diet of sausage meat had turned my heart as hard as an overcooked pizza base.

"Look what happened to Hitler when he was raised on sausages," he said in a Dr Phil voice.

'What future does that child have?'

"He became a broken, defensive little man with terrible facial hair and a lust for blood."

I pointed out to Philippe that, unlike him, I knew Mein Kampf was not an autobiography of a 1930s drag queen and was also aware that Hitler was actually a vegetarian.

I also made sure I regularly visited Lisa for a thorough waxing every week and my lust for blood only went as far as a twinge of road rage on the N1 and a good lamb chop on a Saturday night.

Philippe shrugged and looked over my balcony at a couple pushing a trolley loaded with stolen brass, rusted fenders, coke bottles and a child dressed in clothes even Oliver would have rejected.

"Look at them. What future does that child have?"

'I hate babies and photos of babies'

Looking all beatific as the sun caught his perfectly waxed nostrils, he said: "Wouldn't it be amazing if I got a child at Christmas?"

I spluttered into my sauvignon, and then hissed that with a dish towel, some swaddling clothes and couple of bales of hay, he could be a perfect Mary.

Philippe sighed, adjusted his gym shorts and patted me on the head like the patronising fashion buyer he is. "Your problem is that you're a cynic afraid to get in touch with your inner Mary; afraid to admit that life is passing you by and your ovaries are probably as shrivelled as Mbeki's chances of being president of the ANC."

I did my best impression of a menopausal Margaret Thatcher, drained my glass and threw it over the railings so it smashed on the pavement next to the family.

"Then I suppose you'll move to Rondebosch and swap your Proudly Gay bumper sticker for a Proudly Rondebosch Family one," I sulked, swigging from the bottle.

"And you'll get a Baby On Board one so the rest of us shrivelled cretins drive extra carefully behind you lest we unwittingly harm a sub-species of humanity that can't even talk or pay taxes yet.

"And I suppose your little Lindiwe or Sipho will be kitted out in Naartjie clothes, all florals and pleats and bourgeois summer wear. What's wrong with black?"

I stubbed out my Styvie in the pot plant and glared at Philippe, sitting there all nauseatingly Zen and more lama than the dalai himself.

"Imagine, you could start a new Woolies line of baby clothes in black Lycra with built-in studded bibs," I spat.

Philippe raised himself up, muttered something about me being the most revolting heterosexual he knew and minced out of the flat, slamming the door behind him so hard that my new flat screen slid off the wall and exploded on the flokati.

I picked my way through the shards and amid the smell of burnt electronics and the sound of a stolen Pick 'n Pay trolley trundling along Main Road, I sat down at my laptop and logged on to Hatebook.com.

Here was a place I belonged, devoid of Facebookers talking about themselves in the third person while desperately trawling for more friends than their friends.

And so I started my entry: "I hate Philippe. I hate babies and photos of babies. I hate Christmas and the cranberry-themed gifts the shops wheel out. I hate that I buy self-help books but never remember what I've read. I hate dried mango. I hate the lady who does the Brand Power ads. I hate the fact that it's Friday night and I'm in this forum hating everything along with adenoidal American teenagers who can't spell."

And with that, I closed my iBook, ate five pieces of bratwurst from the fridge, put on my Tweety pyjamas and curled up in bed with 40 And Fabulous: Women Who Run With Sausage Dogs. And fell asleep after the third sentence.