Last night Pollard Jr was giving Liz a right old kicking. I put my hand on the danger area and couldn’t believe the force: this is a baby, for crying out loud! It was wonderful and life-affirming and all that, but I couldn’t help also thinking about how the chest-bursting scene begins in Alien.
This is not the kind of thing that you read in Emma’s Diary, the supremely irritating booklet that the NHS foists on all expectant mothers. In there, ‘Nick’ (the supposedly real, sub-Tony Parsons type husband) hilariously compares their newly-painted baby room to a giant egg and ‘Emma’ (his supposedly real wife) – wait for it – ignores him! This kind of jollity is commonplace in a book which is basically a patronising how-to guide written from the perspective of two people you would never want to meet but would punch if you did.
That said, I’ve just realised that we inadvertently painted our room the same colour as they did. And in the same week. Not sure if this means we’re doing something right or will inevitably turn into morons.
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