It lives

I remember one occasion, not that long before Jamie was born, when Vanessa and I were watching TV.

All was calm, the mood was light and the programme in question was no doubt less than taxing on the mind.

Casually, Vanessa pulled up the front of her thick, knitted pullover (it was May and obviously still freezing cold in these parts) to reveal her tummy, before uttering in an off-hand kind of, "oh, look."

So I did.

And I could see the shape of a hand. A baby's hand. Inside her stomach. An actual hand. A real hand. Of a person. A baby. A baby's hand.

It was one of the most appalling sights I'd ever witnessed.

Yes, I was aware she was pregnant. But it hadn't occurred to me that there was actually someone in there. A human being, with hands and so on.

I don't think I ate for days.

I tell you all of this because last night, just before "lights-out," a similar episode played out.

"Oh, look," said Vanessa, hoisting up her sensible Yorkshire night attire.

And there it was; the outline of a baby's, well, something.

It was shaped a bit like a lunchbox (although not like Linford Christie's) and it was moving.

And it moved me too. Not in an emotional way, but in a stomach-churning way. Honestly. I felt about as comfortable as I imagine I would if someone had put a living fish down my pants.

People often say that there's nothing more beautiful in this world than the sight of an expectant woman.

They're lying.