Me & Katy Perry both

In the early hours of Saturday morning, after 31 hours of sheer insanity with more than it's share of unwanted trauma, I kissed a girl.

And I liked it.

Sanne on the other hand, wasn't as impressed.

Injury-time

She was kidding, surely.

A little obstetric humour to lighten the mood perhaps, considering she had just been poking around the opening of ET’s obstreperous cervix like a drunk driver attempting to touch the tip of his nose.

No. Alas, no.

‘You are zero centimetres dilated.’

'Zero' is not Dutch for 8. Or for 6, or for 2 for that matter. It’s Dutch for zero.

In theory, the 40 weeks being up and Fatso Mango not budging wouldn’t be a very big deal if it wasn’t for the small matter that Fatso Mango is, well, a fatso. To be more accurate, Fatso Mango being a fatso in itself isn’t the issue, but when it’s combined with the fact that Fatso Mango’s Mammy is only a wee thing it does turn a smidge more problematic.

I’m not one to cause alarm, but the obstetrician couldn’t find the child’s legs on the ultrasound today and we believe that the baby has eaten them for nourishment.

Eaten its own legs so it has, the hungry parasitic savage.

Add that to the fact that I'm not sure if a number on the report we have is the estimated birth weight in grams or the doctor's mobile phone number, and it’s got to come out soon, for everyone’s well being.

40 weeks are up. It’s like joining all the dots, stepping back to admire, and still not having a notion what the picture is.

Idle threats to smoke Fatso Mango out have turned into solid arrangements.

The countdown is on; you have 5 days to make your move.

Come out, come out, wherever you are.

Bravo Zulu Fatso Mango

Tensions are running high here on Walton’s mountain.

In fairness, there isn’t a mountain within 300 miles of us and we are about 2 good days of rain away from needing canoes, but the brain is feeble today and misplaced topographical parallels are all I can muster.

Not content with forcing me into having to put on its mother’s shoes and socks, this child also seems intent on making her walk like a wardrobe being pushed up a hill. This, it transpires, is due to the fact it’s bloody massive.

That’s the midwife’s official view anyway, which she shared with us today while running through the measurements from last week’s scan.

An average head, colossal belly, and tiny legs. Yes indeed, the universe is getting its own back on me, and I’m going to be raising someone that looks like Jabba the hutt.

The upside of growing a monstrous all consuming savage is that they won’t let it get too big without smoking it out. Apparently if it reaches the size of a hotel mini-bar it’s quite difficult to remove through a vaginal passage. Who knew?

Add to all this the fact that concerns that have been voiced over our ability to appropriately name the kid, and it’s feared we will call it after a fruit, or a celebrity, or a celebrity fruit. Therefore we’ve decided to embrace a new name for the belly dweller.

Mango. Fatso Mango.

So you, you umbilical bungee jumping big lipped bugger, this is a warning to you. Make an appearance soon Fatso Mango or we’re coming in there to get you out.

Over and out.