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Friday, June 22, 2012

Anyone who's ever seen me in close-fitting lycra will testify to the fact that I have buns of steel, and the kind of sculpted rear end it takes years of gym work to achieve. But only if I pay them to lie. In reality, the only firm butt I can touch with both hands is collecting rainwater in my parents' garden. And here it is...

That's an old flame on the right. She's still carrying a torch for me.

Anyhoo, to be honest, I'm more like J.Lo at sixty. But it seems that my son is looking far more chiselled than his father. Lisa went for another ante-natal appointment yesterday, a fortnight after being told that the baby could be breech, and this time she saw her usual midwife. The one who wasn't sure about the baby's position two weeks ago was a different lady - possibly less experienced - and having been examined by a second pair of hands, it seems that all is well. Apparently our son has "a particularly bony bottom", which is easily mistaken for a head. Although that won't last once the Gardner fat gene kicks in.

The other possibility, of course, is that the baby has two heads, and could be the subject of a future Channel 5 documentary, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

In the meantime, he's being well looked after by Amelie. Lisa was walking to nursery yesterday afternoon, when she had one of her trademark stumbles. Fortunately she recovered quickly, picked herself up, and attempted to carry on regardless, but Amelie forced her to stop for a few moments. Not because she was worried about her mother, but because she wanted to check the baby was ok, by talking to him through Lisa's stomach.

We'll see how long the concern lasts once he's taking her parents' attention and breaking all her toys.