Man and Boy. Tony Parsons

There are many good things about my father, but he is not a soft man, he is not a sentimental man. He doesn’t gurgle and coo over babies in the street. My father is a good man, but the things he has gone through in his life mean that he is also a hard man. Today some ice deep inside him begins to crack and I can tell he feels it too.

       This is the most beautiful baby in the world.

       I give my father a bottle I bought months ago. It is bourbon. My father only drinks beer and whisky, but he takes the bottle with a big grin on his face. The label on the bottle says ‘Old Granddad’. That’s him. That’s my father.

       And I know today that I have become more like him. Today I am a father too. All the supposed landmarks of manhood – losing my virginity, getting my driving licence, voting for the first time – were all just the outer suburbs of my youth. I went through all those things and came out the other side fundamentally unchanged, still a boy.

       But now I have helped to bring another human being into the world.

       Today I became what my father has been forever.

       Today I became a man.

       I am twenty-five years old.

       one

      Some situations to avoid when preparing for your all-important, finally-I-am-fully-grown thirtieth birthday.

      Having a one-night stand with a colleague from work.

      The rash purchase of luxury items you can’t afford.

      Being left by your wife.

      Losing your job.

      Suddenly becoming a single parent.

      If you are coming up to thirty, whatever you do, don’t do any of that.

      It will fuck up your whole day.

      Thirty should be when you think – these are my golden years, these are my salad days, the best is yet to come – and all that old crap.

      You are still young enough to stay up all night, but you are old enough to have a credit card. All the uncertainties and poverty of your teens and twenties are finally over – and good riddance to the lot of them – but the sap is still rising.

      Thirty should be a good birthday. One of the best.

      But how to celebrate reaching the big three-oh? With a collection of laughing single friends in some intimate bar or restaurant? Or surrounded by a loving wife and adoring small children in the bosom of the family home?

      There has to be a good way of turning thirty. Perhaps they are all good ways.

      All my images of this particular birthday seemed to be derived from some glossy American sitcom. When I thought of turning thirty, I thought of attractive thirty-nothing marrieds snogging like teens in heat while in the background a gurgling baby crawls across some polished parquet floor, or I saw a circle of good-looking, wisecracking friends drinking latte and showing off their impressive knitwear while wryly bemoaning the dating game. That was my problem. When I thought of turning thirty, I thought of somebody else’s life.

      That’s what thirty should be – grown-up without being disappointed, settled without being complacent, worldly wise, but not so worldly wise that you feel like chucking yourself under a train. The time of your life.

      By thirty you have finally realised that you are not going to live forever, of course. But surely that should only make the laughing, latte-drinking present taste even sweeter? You shouldn’t let your inevitable death put a damper on things. Don’t let the long, slow slide to the grave get in the way of a good time.

      Whether you are enjoying the last few years of unmarried freedom, or have recently moved on to a more adult, more committed way of life with someone you love, it’s difficult to imagine a truly awful way of turning thirty.

      But I managed to find one somehow.

      The car smelled like somebody else’s life. Like freedom.

      It was parked right in the window of the showroom, a wedge-shaped sports car which, even with its top off, looked as sleek and compact as a muscle.

      Naturally it was red – a flaming, testosterone-stuffed red.

      When I was a little bit younger, such blatant macho corn would have made me sneer, or snigger, or puke, or all of the above.

      Now I found it didn’t bother me at all. In fact, it seemed to be just what I was looking for at this stage of my life.

      I’m not really the kind of man who knows what cars are called, but I had made it my business – furtively lingering over the ads in glossy magazines – to find out the handle of this particular hot little number. Yes, it’s true. Our eyes had met before.

      But its name didn’t really matter. I just loved the way it looked. And that smell. Above all, that smell. That anything-can-happen smell. What was it about that smell?

      Amidst the perfume of leather, rubber and all those yards of freshly sprayed steel, you could smell a heartbreaking newness, a newness so shocking that it almost overwhelmed me. This newness intimated another world that was limitless and free, an open road leading to all the unruined days of the future. Somewhere they had never heard of traffic cones or physical decay or my thirtieth birthday.

      I knew that smell from somewhere and I recognised the way it made me feel. Funnily enough, it reminded me of that feeling you get when you hold a newborn baby.

      The analogy was far from perfect – the car couldn’t squint up at me with eyes that had just started to see, or grasp one of my fingers in a tiny, tiny fist, or give me a gummy little smile. But for a moment there it felt like it just might.

      ‘You only live once,’ the car salesman said, his heels clicking across the showroom floor.

      I smiled politely, indicating that I would have to think that one over.

      ‘Are you in the market for some serious fun?’ he said. ‘Because if the MGF is about one thing, it’s about fun.’

      While he gave me his standard sales pitch, he was sizing me up, trying to decide if I was worth a test drive.

      He was pushy, but not so pushy that it made your flesh crawl. He was just doing his job. And despite my weekend clothes – which because of the nature of my work were not really so different from my weekday clothes – he must have seen a man of substance. A fast-track career looking for some matching wheels. Young, free and single. A life as carefree as a lager commercial. How wrong can you be?

      ‘This model has the Variable Valve Control system,’ he said, with what seemed like genuine enthusiasm. ‘The opening period of the inlet valves can be varied by altering the rotational speed of each cam lobe.’

      What the fuck was he going on about? Was it something to do with the engine?

      ‘A total babe magnet,’ he said, noting my dumbfounded expression. ‘Plenty of poke. A young single guy couldn’t do any better than the MGF.’

      This was my kind of sales pitch. Forget the technical guff, just tell me that you can lose yourself in a car like this. Let me know you can lose yourself. That’s what I wanted to hear.

      The salesman was distracted by something on the street, and I followed his gaze out of the showroom’s plate-glass wall.

      He was looking at a tall blonde woman holding the hand of a small boy wearing a Star Wars T-shirt. They were surrounded by bags of supermarket shopping. And they were watching us.

      Even framed by all those plastic carrier bags and chaperoning a little kid, the woman was the kind that you look at more than once.

      What you