I am remiss. Hold me in the sheerest disdain, for I have not publicly welcomed The Acolyte to the world stage.
Congratulations to Mr and Mrs Theologian on the birth of a bouncing baby boy in good health and spirits. My you both
survive enjoy the journey.
Mrs A is half way to the day of reckoning, and I find myself disappointed. Every woman is, I suppose, different, and being a gym junkie she has stomach muscles of steel. So at 20 weeks there is little if any obvious physical sign that she is indeed up the duff. Walking through baby shops amongst women who have developed their own gravitational pull, and even achieved small satellite moons in some instances, we are treated with a certain level of disbelief when answering shop assistants on how far along we are.
There is also a lack of obvious baby motion and kicking. No Jackie Chan kung fu fighting adept is this child of mine.
We now have, thanks to the generosity of grandparents to be, a cot that becomes a bed, a tallboy that remains a tallboy, a pram that becomes a stroller and a change table that becomes a drinks cart. I doubt that that is actually the manufacturers intention, but even the shop assistant thought it sounded a good idea when I pointed it out. What else do you ultimately do with a solid timber set of open shelves on wheels once the original purpose is no longer required?
Oh, and the title of the post? Ask a butcher.