As one of twelve men in Hampsteadistan who doesn't own a German automobile or wear a fat watch with four useless mini dials, I occasionally notice a look which suggests that I smell like a hippie. Never was this more pronounced than Sunday afternoon when young Exree and I went to our local pub to watch the Wimbledon final. My hippiness level was at code blood orange due to the BabaSling wrapped around my chest and torso, out of which hung little Throckmorton's smoldering corncob pipe.
I have serious beef with the BabaSling. The primary purpose of a sling is to ensure that I don't have to hold on to my burping sprog. While wearing a sling, I should be able to walk into a pub, wave to the bartender, count my change and buy a pint. I should then be able to sit quietly in the corner and savor every sip of my bitter while Hastrobal sits comfortably in his hammock, smoking and pondering the existence of narwhals.
Unfortunately, the BabaSling isn't up to task. The problem is a lack of head support. I spent the entire match, which just happened to be the longest final in Wimbledon history, supporting Achilles's noggin and neck with my right hand and forearm. Both of which, I should add, were numb by the time Roddick blew it.
Drake's review of the BabaSling:
How does it look? "Hampstead hippie"
Does it work? "Yes, if you share DNA with the headless horseman"
Final say: "Too hands-on"
Friday, 10 July 2009
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1 comments:
I liked the Hot Sling the best, tried many & the Bjorn. It was the only one I could figure out easily and have full use of both hands for double fisting much needed pints. Can't say how it works for men, Mark wouldn't have been caught dead wearing a baby sling (ha ha, hippie).
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