Okay, it’s Sunday night. I spurn the Eurovision Song Contest and pump up the Led Zeppelin. I wipe the screen with my promotional DHL static wipe thing, and sit down at the keyboard. But am I inspired? To be honest, no.
Actually, it’s lucky that I made it. With the baby almost overdue(*), it’s impossible to plan beyond the next ten minutes. Sure, I planned to do the drying-up, take a quick visit into bogland, and then come and write this. But at any minute, the scheduled program could be cancelled, and the 1995 Home To Hospital Dash could be on.
(*) Depending on what date estimate you believe.
I didn’t think that nervousness about the imminent arrival was affecting me. Until last Tuesday night, when I entered the bathroom.
- The plan: to brush my teeth.
- The execution: Pick up the shaver, turn it on, start shaving.
Hmmm. I was halfway through shaving when L asked: "What are you doing?" I stopped. I turned it off. And stared at it. I think I’m going out of my mind.
So anyway, no, the baby hasn’t arrived yet. And no amount of shouting "Isaac! Get down here!" has worked yet. I guess it’s like waiting for a bus. You know it’s going to appear eventually. You’re just not sure exactly when.
