Eish!

The Womble gave birth yesterday.

A lovely little girl I’m told and I can only believe it. She is cursed with good genes. Short hairy genes but good ones nonetheless. I still need to pop round and go and see for myself. I need to borrow a camping chair for Up the Creek anyway.

I’m told there are no hooves, extra digits nor excessive body hair which is good.

She hasn’t written her first sonata yet, though, which is bad. There is not much time left to qualify for Musical Prodigy and she needs to start immediately. After this brief window period she’ll be forced to compete in circus acts to make a mark in this world.

<Insert Name Here> weighs in at 3 odd kilogrammes and reaches 48cm fully expanded, a not so surprising result and I’m told that they are already getting long tweed jackets made to fit for her first winter. They keep her in a vase too which is surprising (photos on request). My knowledge of the Early Developmental Years is admittedly limited somewhat but I’m sure even I was not raised in a vase.

Come to think of it, I was raised in the desert, in a bucket with a hose-pipe. There are reels of dated 16mm films to prove it. Mom, Dad, you have some more explaining to do.

Least of all, what was wrong with Betamax? Your generation had the Choice!

This is all rather exciting. My favourite short people are not only married (to each other) but found time to create life beyond their vegetable patch. It also means that the Womble is no longer so darn pregnant and we can go back to visiting her at whim. The Hormonal Phases I missed luckily having witnessed no violence, abuse nor depression. Calm as a Hindu Cow our little Joga Yoda was. If it wasn’t for the fact that she was bizarrely lumpy in places you would not have even known she was pregnant.

However, I would have liked to witness the Nesting Phase. An endearing image of the Womble foraging for twigs, bits of string and laundry lint persists. Like a middle-aged Bambi. Or Tweety? Either way.

Tomorrow I will grace them for a spot of baby cooing. I look forward to it greatly. Babies always smell like Johnson’s powders and various exotic linaments. So clean yet for so short a time. It is fortunate that the Stegi Empire is currently partly located in their garage. Dig a sink-hole behind the pool pump, shoot the dog, keep a coiled hose-pipe handy and you’ve got the perfect recipe for a long and hassle-free Early Developmental Stage.

At least they don’t live in the desert, no matter how sad those olive trees look.

Then I’ll take that camping chair and stay up past my bedtime at Up the Creek ’09.

Personal Note: <Insert Name Here>’s Parentals, thank you for giving us this gift. We shall teach her all the Wise Ways of the World. We have much to share.  She shall learn how to push a car down the driveway at night so as not to wake her parents; cheat at Monopoly better than her mother and pop the lids of bottles using her elbows. Who says education is wasted on the youth? The youth are the only ones with anything to do with an education. The rest of us lament not knowing more when we were younger.