MY TWO DADS
Harry and Jeff are determined to out-parent their heterosexual pals, because — among other things — the twins weren’t exactly easy to come by. The savings-devouring surrogacy, the complicated negotiations... by the time they’d been through all that you could be certain their two children were the most dearly desired creatures who had ever had their umbilical cords cut by a pair of men holding hands. South London has taken them to its bosom: the neighbours welcomed the twins home with a muffin basket ( jokingly addressed to ‘Cameron and Mitchell’). Jeff does most of his PR job from home so he can be around the kids more. Harry, CFO of a London department store, is the prime breadwinner, but has managed to arrange a nine-day fortnight. You should see them getting a flat white and a croissant on Saturday morning on Clapham Common North Side: proud as punch with their his-and-his BabyBjörns strapped to their chests. The kids are a complete obsession — and, thanks to Jeff’s handiness in the kitchen, are already better eaters than almost all of their contemporaries. They favour ‘pumzum’ cheese (you know, the hard Italian stuff), stuffed olives and homemade pumpkin ravioli. Both dads were pretty non-scene in any case — though Jeff had his moments in his early twenties. Since settling down, good hair and merino cardigans are the order of the day, and the first thing either man thinks when he hears the word ‘Grindr’ is of their Jamie Oliver spice mill. outside in the drop-top MG how much they look up to him. Spoil them? Why shouldn’t he? He’s earned the money and the right. If Helen thinks he’s going to stay in cooking them chickpea curry when there’s MEATliquor and the 3D kids’ show at the IMAX to be had, she’s got another think coming. Children deserve a bit of excitement and (though he’d never say it to her face) the ‘holidays’ with Mum in her parents’ musty cottage on the Norfolk Broads don’t cut it.