Dropped

Tom’s wife has finally given birth. Seven pounds ten ounces apparently. A boy. Mother and baby both well. He’s their sixth, so I can’t imagine she had too much trouble squeezing him out. I mean, my understanding of female anatomy is limited, as any ex-girlfriend will tell you, but there must be a finite number of times the muscles in the vagina can be stretched before they become permanently loosened and flexible. It’s like shoe leather - it starts all tight and chafes your ankles but once you’ve stuffed your feet in and out a few times it tends to give a bit more. Or maybe it isn’t like that at all. I’m not comfortable talking about it as I’m squeamish and I don’t like babies. Philippa has warned me that Tom turns into something called a baby-bore when his kids are born, and he’s likely to spend all day going on about it when he comes back to work after paternity leave. He might even bring in pictures to celebrate ‘the miracle of natural childbirth’ and to let us all share in his joyful wonderment. If he sets up a PowerPoint presentation on placenta, I swear I will kill him with an ashtray.

RC 16-6-10