Time's Up, Shorty

Part 1 can be found here.

The doctor looks up, first at me and then at my wife. “I erm… suppose I could… ah… take a look at it.”  His face is now a vivid shade of hot pink. “Would you mind erm… removing your top please? And umm… your bra.”

We seem to have accidentally stumbled into a terrible John Hughes coming-of-age movie. I start to wonder if our doctor is actually a doctor, and not just a nervous teenager here on work experience. Or perhaps he’s the lucky winner of a hospital radio competition. Have the NHS cutbacks been that bad? Are they plucking random idiots off the street, handing them a stethoscope, a copy of FHM and asking them to cover for the Boob Specialist?

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“Is there anything else you want to ask?” enquires the young, male doctor. Mid-twenties probably. 27 tops. I have officially reached that point in life’s great conveyor belt of clichés where you start guessing your doctor’s age.

“Yes,” replies my wife. “I want to talk about my boobs.”

This isn’t the response the doctor had been expecting. In the preceding 20 minutes we had discussed our baby’s weight, his sleeping habits and the persistent rash around his neck, not to mention the obligatory five minutes of ‘weather chat’. There had been no indication whatsoever that anyone wanted to talk about their boobs.

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Within a few hours of birth, many animals are not only feeding but standing up and walking around. I remember watching a baby foal being born on Countryfile once and marveling at how quickly it was up and drunkenly gambolling about on its long, wobbly legs. By these standards, I think it’s fair to say our baby is pretty useless. He can’t walk. He can’t crawl. He can’t communicate in anything other than the most primitive of fashions. And he’ll never win the Grand National. (Unless it’s on the back of someone else who’s actually putting in all the effort.)

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