…but then we knew that already.  Why do they do that these days?  I mean – what was wrong with waiting until the baby was born before knowing whether it was a bloke or a blokette? 

They used to wrap the baby in a towel and hand it to the mother with a nice cup of tea and a cheery: “congratulations Mrs Screamer – it’s a…”  Now they just say “Right, you’re done.  Get yourself off home so we can clear up this mess”.   I swear they only encourage fathers to be present at the birth so they can have the car ticking over outside the delivery suite ready to whisk mother and newborn away in double quick time!

That’s just it, I guess: they can save valuable time (and tea) by finding out the sex before hand.  It seems they can employ less qualified staff in the delivery room.  And at midwiffery collage, they can skip the whole year where they teach them how to tell the difference!

Anywayz – Thomas William has come into the world.  All eight pounds eleven ounces of him.  Born, in case you’re wondering, to Jane Elizabeth Birchall my daughter  - not Jayne Elizabeth Birchall my wife (complicated innit!).  Yesterday I became a grand-parent.

Ten tiny fingers and a similar number of tiny toes.  He looks just like Steve, but then nobody’s perfect.  

I jest. Steve is an absolute star.  Top man.  A father can only hope his daughters end up with decent blokes and I’ve been blessed twice.

Hmmm. Now that we’re back home from our visit to meet young Tom, I’m trying to work out why Jayne-with-a-’Y’ has got that old familiar glint in her eye!

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