I've got it! Maybe babies are not babbling nonsense. Perhaps they are actually speaking French, the tongue of Baudelaire and Plastic Bertrand.
In such a monolingual society, how would we know? I put this compelling theory to the test by speaking only French to Kit one morning. Being so very English, my French is limited, but I hit him with what I knew.
"Parlez-vous Anglais?"
Nothing. Rien. Or was he just being, you know, French.
I persevered as my French lessons came flooding back to me. I say, flooding. I mean, trickling. And when I say French lessons, I mean, memories of the taut wonder of my French teacher's bra.
"Ecoutez et répétez! Jean-Paul est dans la bibliotheque."
Bibliotheque remains my favourite French word. It sounds like a book disco, something I'd be keen to attend should it ever come to South London. I imagine it full of inquisitive French girls with glasses, many of them bi-lingual, the little minxes.
I digress.
Kit returned a volley of baby babble in which consonants had been comprehensively overwhelmed by vowels. I was immediately transported to the banks of the Seine.
There, I could speak Slow French, only to be left clutching at nouns when a native responded at normal speed. Lost, I would thank them, then agree with them, and if they still wouldn't stop talking, offer them my trousers.
"Alors," I said to Kit. "Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose."
By the look of Gallic indifference, I'd say we're getting somewhere, but I'm running out of vocab.
"Deux bières, s'il vous plaît."
He looks at me like a Parisian waiter might, had I said "Le" instead of "La", making me feel ashamed, small and unlikely to tip.
Unbowed, I try: "Etre à voile et à vapeur".
Now, I realise the concept of bisexuality may not be appropriate chit-chat with an infant, but it is a lesson in elegance. We say "swings both ways", they say, "navigates by sail and steam." Who's le cons?
At last he makes a familiar sound and we understand each other perfectly.
"Ah, merde. Merde encore."
Our matin is over as the nappy calls.
