D’ya hear yer man
If you’re reading this on Wednesday night, Karen has three days left before she’s due to give birth.
If you’re reading this on Thursday, then she has two days to go.
In saying that, given the unpredictably of new arrivals and the lag between print and publication deadlines, by the time you’re reading this, she may already have given birth.
More than likely though the baby will be late as is usually the case with first babies.
Rarely early, occasionally on time, generally late - first babies are like buses in that respect. You know they’re going to arrive, but you just can’t be sure when.
Though let’s hope first babies are not too much like buses.
I don’t fancy waiting nine months for one and three turn up at once.
A certain amount of tact
There’s one of the pregnancy books I’ve been reading that reminds the partner to exercise a certain amount of tact when around his pregnant other half. You’re supposed to be sympathetic, understanding, offer support and provide a sounding board for any concerns.
I committed the cardinal sin the other night when I announced, “I’ve just worked out I haven’t had a drink of alcohol for over two weeks. Isn’t that really good?”
“That’s brilliant. Now try doing it for nine months,” Karen replied.
As if that wasn’t a big enough case of ‘foot in mouth’, at the weekend, having spent the day tidying the garage so it could accommodate a new tumble dryer, I declared, “You know something - my back is really killing me.”
“Maybe you’d like to try carrying a constantly moving stone-weight in front of you every day,” Karen suggested, nodding towards her bump. “Then you can tell me all about your sore back.”
I had half hoped the baby would arrive on Friday as a birthday of 11/11/11 would have been really easy to remember. It wasn’t to be and I’m not really that upset about it. The baby will come out when it’s good and ready.
I’ve read about at least six babies born at 11.11 on 11/11/11 in Oxford, West Sussex, New Jersey, Chicago, Florida and LA. Although it’s entirely possible given that there are around 300 babies born every minute, I’m not wholly convinced that all these babies were born at exactly 11.11am or pm.
I can just imagine the midwives in some of those hospitals when they recorded the time of birth on the baby’s chart.
“Alright, Marge - what time did you make the delivery as?”
“A quarter past 11.”
“Can you be slightly more accurate?”
“Alright, it was 14 minutes past.”
“You do realise today’s date? 11. 11. 11. Couldn’t you just put the time at 11.11 as well?”
“No, because it was born at 11.14.”
“What’s the harm in putting 11.11? Think of the publicity we’ll get.”
“I can’t - the baby was only half out at 11.11.”
“Tell you what, if the TV come to report on the ‘22.214.171.124.11 Baby’ you can do the interview?”
“Don’t care. I’m putting 11.14.”
“What if I give you Friday off?”
“OK, I’ll put 11.11.”
“And while we’re at it, why don’t I just record the baby’s weight as 11 pounds 11 ounces?!”
A weighty subject
Speaking of pounds and ounces, Clint has managed to lose 17 pounds in a week on his new diet and exercise regime.
It’s a truly remarkable effort from the man known as ED. I’ve worked out that his weight loss is the equivalent of two new born babies. He’s effectively given birth to twins.
While it’s good news for Clint it’s bad news for the Windsor Bakery as cream bun sales have hit an all-time low.
Clint - once a man mountain - is in danger of becoming a mere hillock.
The answer to last week’s teaser was: it will take one minute before all the dogs are back at the start.
Here’s this week’s teaser: What is the next letter in this series? OTTFFS