Charlotte Church makes me feel old. While Californian red oaks have the rings around their trunks to indicate age, I forgo my birth certificate and track my lifeline across the ups and downs of the Welsh prodigy’s career. When she was winning over opera snobs with her howling arias as an unjaded tween, I was still counting pudding cups and fruit punch as part of a healthy diet. And when Church was emancipated from her money-grubbing parents and sought solace in menthols and booze, I was frenetically scribbling a report on these people. She even dabbled in an aimless pop career as her voice, from years of substance abuse, was no longer suited for opera.
But looking at Charlotte Church with child and about to burst, I can’t help but feel like the ticking of my own biological clock getting louder. And knowing that this is Church’s second offspring makes that ticking practically deafening. Church similarly grows edgy. But that’s because she’s impatient, now consuming curry and raspberry tea in copious amounts, either to speed up childbirth or the prospect of a jolly food baby. So while we all wait breathlessly for her to dial up her midwife and shriek profanities into her mobile after her water breaks, let’s enjoy this moment of Church wailing some vintage Michael Jackson with Amy Winehouse.