The Baby

The baby still wasn't real to me when the first ultrasound revealed one head, some organs, limbs, ventricles and a spine. "Tidy your womb," I said, giving Kit his first telling off.

It seems he had been listening after all and later tidied up his umbilical cord with a series of life-threatening knots. Maybe he intended shimmying down it in some Stewie Griffin-inspired escape, to destroy Parliament before the entire country dies of sighing at the Coalition.

But no. Unable to rustle up any dynamite, his first act was to wave his arms about, prompting a comely nurse to say "Aw. He's stroking me."

Ten seconds old and stroking a nurse. That's my son, that is.

There was concern that he might be born a Gindian, a ginger-Indian combination of his parents. Instead he had his mother's dark hair, his father's eyebrows and his Great Aunt Maud's penis.

He also unmistakably has my hands and feet, only in miniature, obviously. Otherwise he'd represent a very challenging birth, but an amusing test for people who really want to say 'He's gorgeous!' when they mean, 'Big-footed monster!'

He also boasts some fine earbrows - downy hair over the top of the ears that would have got you burned at the stake a few hundred years ago. Or made king on the Isle of Sheppey.

I'm savouring the inscrutable period before the smiles begin. It all goes irresistibly Disney then, after a long period of dour European cinema. I like European cinema; the sparse dialogue, ambiguity and unspoken nuances. Babies have a similar mystery and presence, though with more poo.

Staring at him, wondering what on earth is going on in there, you get no clues. I'm pretty sure the look he gave me the other day though equated to: You wanker.

For now, there's no language, no means of expression beyond crying. It’s a bit like being a Premier League footballer.

Currently I'm trying to master burping, but something is awry in my technique. Once Kit has been fed and looks thoroughly stoned, I get him on my shoulder and pat his back. Without fail, I burp. I burp copiously and volubly, before handing the visibly upset infant back to his mother, unburped and slightly horrified.

The Hospital

When Kit arrived, at 6.20pm, on Halloween, he was slung onto Spud by a rough-arsed doctor, like a fisherman throwing a catch ashore.

We were left with our baby under a lamp, like warmed canteen chips, and our mid-wife, a strange but sweet Belgian who had been seriously top notch. We heart you.

She did however, give me more information about her ‘back passage’ than I could possibly have wanted. Spud is screaming in pain in the birthing pool and she’s telling me what might happen to her ass. Then she starts telling me what happened to hers. Do I look like I want to know about your ass? I haven’t even looked at your tits.

Anyway, lady, I’m here to get a baby.

Kit is tiny. 5lbs 13 and a half ounces of nervous impulses. His arms are waving about like Bez doing kung fu. The newborn nappy is so baggy it looks like Bez as a sumo wrestler, yet, in truth, Kit bears no resemblance to Bez whatsoever and I don’t know why I brought him up.

Everybody thinks their baby is beautiful, that’s only natural. It’s almost certainly some evolutionary trick to stop us seasoning them and chucking them in the oven. They taste like chicken, apparently (Note: always add ‘apparently’ when discussing devouring your young).

That's another trick. I mean, I like chicken, but on its own, it's a bit meh. If they said, ‘they taste like cheeseburgers, apparently,’ we’d have a serious population problem in this country.

Or, if you’re in the Portland Hospital and the rumour gets round that they taste like foie gras, apparently, a generation of toffs and celebs could be wiped out. (Note to self: Add to Just Might Work list)

If Kit could see properly, his first vista would have been the Houses of Parliament. It would have been a good first lesson on something that is beautiful on the outside and ugly on the inside, like Sarah Palin, or Myra Hindley's handbag.

He can only look forward to better examples of humanity, unless he's going to get the good burghers of Britain to pay to clean his moat, or be responsible for the deaths of tens of thousands of people, puff his cheeks out and say: "It seemed like a good idea at the time. Want to buy a book?"

And so, with thanks to St Thomas' Hospital and the NHS we took Kit home, along with the hope that he always ignores Wittgenstein: "I don't know why we are here, but I'm pretty sure that it is not in order to enjoy ourselves." The fool.

Photo by: Maurice from Zoetermeer, Netherlands