Given Jamie's new found status as a media darling, Vanessa and I thought the time was right to have him weighed again.
He hadn't actually been on the scales at the local clinic since June and, if you read this blog regularly you'll know, he's done a hell of a lot of eating since then.
I've faced some criticism in the past - not least from my mother - for describing our boy as "fat." But whilst, OK, he's hardly obese, he's certainly "well at himself" (as they say where I come from) which could arguably be translated into "fat."
Anyway, my name-calling had clearly got to him so, prior to visiting the clinic in Pudsey, Jamie insisted on having a practice go himself on the bathroom scales.
He began with a quick prayer.
Before climbing on.
And then, well, the result (which he refused to share with us) seemed to throw him into shock.
I thought at the time that this must mean bad news - but I was wrong.
For, later at the clinic, he weighed in at an even 30 pounds which, whilst certainly enormous for his age, is absolutely fine and comfortably within the official babybook boundaries for someone of his height.
Indeed, one of the nurses added that there wasn't "an ounce of fat on him." (A couple of pounds, maybe, but nothing in actual ounces).
So, the outcome of all of this is that I have henceforth been ordered by Vanessa to refrain from calling our son any names which might suggest he's a bit of the tubby side.
It looks like a long, hard winter for me then.
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