When you don't have your own conversations, you listen to what other people talk about. You know, the goss about Jeremy, his sabletooth ex-wife and their saucy divorce; about Florence, the expensiveness yet oh-so-worth-it of travelling and other uninteresting things. However, I recently happened to overhear an idea which I have fallen in life with.Two women in their 50s talking about a friend who came to New Zealand for some OE trip, had a fabulous time, fell in love with some islander, never had the guts to stay, went back to the States to her planned life, grew more and more nostalgic of NZ and then ended up naming her daughter Maori. Of course she spelled it as Maory, and of course she pretended it was Native American. And I thought that if I ever had to live somewhere else, and ever had a baby and nothing better to call it, I would pick the name Maori (or Maory, or I could even pronounce it with the O stressed) and this will be my little secret and my penance for my misspent New Zealand youth. Of course I will never have the guts to do it, and will probably end up picking some classical boring name, like Alexandra or Anastasia.  Urgh.

I can never understand why you would want to dress your child as an underage lawyer. Of course, chances are that this kid is much more likely to be from a decent family; therefore, he is much more likely to end up as a lawyer - or corporate banker or business development manager anyway, so what is the point of taking the childhood from him right away? Give him lime green, canary yellow and roadworks orange, with the Sponge Bob appliqué. If the child likes it, he might just get stuck in a suit till his grave, if he does not, then it is interesting. I was dressed like that throughout my childhood - good quality boring dresses of appropriate length, reliable colours of beige, brown and grey and solid checkers and stripes instead of bratz stuff. Look at me now - no, I did not grow to be a punk, but I am still dressed like I live in Chicago in 1920: feathers and glitter and all that jazz stuff. Didn't do me any good, my point is. On the other hand, every child needs a suit - for some weddings and some funerals. So let them be now - and remember, you have to be nice to your kids, it is them who will be choosing your nursery home.

I had a revelation last night. I realised that I could actually adopt a baby. (I could stop here, but for some reason I feel obliged to explain). All my life I have been against adoptions. Not generally against, no, just something Eugenia-non-compatible. Like, you know, if you don't get any babies of your own at the cabbage patch - just accept it and get on. I just could not comprehend - how can you bring a stranger into your life, feed him, dress him and then mention him in your will? Never, I thought. And then I realised that the concept of adopting is actually very different. It is just like having an extra friend. Or a super-charged cat, for that matter, apart from the fact that you actually make a difference. The only part of this concept that I haven't thought through yet is how you align your adopted kid and your biological one, should the latest appear in your life. But I suppose Tom and Nicole back in their marriage days figured that out: you treat it as a training ground. Not for your parenting skills, but for your partner. Unsure how your spouse is going to take it - let them practise. And then have a child with somebody else, I presume.