Come Out Stan!

Still no baby. Which just goes to show that old wives’ tales are bollocks, because Emily ate an extremely hot chilli last night and it had no effect whatsoever. I cooked a vat of the ever-popular Mexican dish for friends who came over to watch the World Cup Final. The football was pretty poor stuff, but the company was enjoyable. Especially as Franco, a Sicilian barrister, brought along some amazing chocolate cake and Crème brulée. The man is wasted practicing law – he should become a chef.

The pregnancy saga will be over this week. Stanley (as he’s currently called) is being turfed out on Thursday. Well, I say Thursday – the ‘induction’ starts that night, but the process could take days. Our ideals of a natural home birth have gone by the wayside. Emily just wants the pregnancy over and I can’t say I blame her.

Meanwhile my firstborn son, Frankie, has told me that his friend Henry wants to marry him. He’s considering the offer, but wants to be a father, so may have to decline. As we’re a liberal family, no one’s objecting to Henry’s overtures. I did explain to Frankie that if two men marry, they can adopt a baby, but he wants offspring that are genetically his. I didn’t go into the whole turkey-baster/willing female friend thing ­– that’s a conversation we’ll save for later in young Francis’s journey through life.