Introducing the third Lost Boy

BY TOM FITZSIMONS

Okay, this is awkward. No, that's not Lane's skinny, toothy smile staring back at you. It's not Nick's smug hairy mug. Actually, it's me looking sort of like a child who thinks he's a spy. Hi, I'm Tom Fitzsimons, another reporter at the Dom Post, and, gulp, I'm the new Lost Boy.

You know, I feel like that guy at the party who doesn't know anyone, so he pulls out his cellphone and starts faking a text message. Or the one who tries to join a conversation, only to find everyone else is really good friends and he's still standing three feet outside of the little circle they've set up. Or the one who says: How about those All Blacks?

Nick and Lane decided they needed an injection of pure adrenaline, an unstoppable livewire, someone barely holding on to the horse of life, someone young and hip and mysterious. But for reasons I'm still unsure about, instead they settled on me.

After Friday's teasing post, some of you readers were sharp enough to see that a third wheel was what the boys had planned. 'Mel' generously welcomed the idea, writing 'I really really hope it's a third Lost Boy,' which was heartening (Mum, was that you?). But others had a few conditions. 'Yes please - a gorgeous, tall third lost boy/man', wrote 'starshine'. Another reader wanted young, single and 'v good looking'.

And I guess this is where I need to share a few home truths.

Actually, I'm not any of those things. Moreover, I'm not any of the things that make Lane and Nick, notwithstanding the odd success in love and career, so adrift. Both of them are approaching the age of 40 like crash test dummies approach a wall. I'm a baby-faced 24. Lane threatens to drown himself in a pool of rosé after work most nights. I'm still optimistic about the future, and I'd rather drink a decent single malt. Nick seems happiest pottering around in a jungle on the south coast. I'm most at home in the city, strolling my 15 minutes from Aro Valley to work.

But before you all go on strike or furiously email my elderly compadres about their disastrous choice, let me finish.

I might still have the elixir of youth, I might not be as amusingly effeminate as Lane, and I might not be as cripplingly hairy as Nick, but I'm still lost. Actually, I'm quite possibly more lost than either of them. And I'm not just talking about ordinary quarter-life navel-gazing (though I've done my share of that, and for those interested, try Julian Barnes' memoir). No, it's deeper.

Earlier this year, I unexpectedly created some new life. Yes, I'm going to be a father. My girlfriend and I have enjoyed telling people that we thought it was time to start a family, but actually we're doing it on the fly. For those who read other Dom Post blogs, you'll realise I'm joining hordes of my colleagues, but for me it's all happening about a decade earlier than expected.

Don't get me wrong. I don't have anything against the race of babies, and I'm not staring down the barrel of single fatherhood (yet). Actually, I'm pretty excited. But we're six months along and still coming to grips with it all. So if you'll have me, I'll be back with everything from the hunt for a decent name for the child, to tips for beating Lane at tennis (actually you only need one: hit the ball over the net).

In the mean time, please leave only notes of support. Also tales of teenage pregnancy to make me feel better.

- © Fairfax NZ News