Vanessa and I were in a delivery suite in Leeds General Infirmary and, quite frankly, Vanessa wasn't delivering.
Having seen the scans and felt the occasional tummy kick over previous months, I knew there was a theory that I was about to become a father. But I didn't really believe it.
I mean, "did you see the shape of me?" (as they say in Coleraine). I wasn't ready to be a dad and I'd certainly never met a child who I could imagine would wish to be my son or daughter.
In fact, it was only when a smiley nurse handed me a little fat man at around 8.50pm that night that I finally realised the whole episode hadn't been an elaborate hoax.
By day four, Baby James Richard had become a bit more bonny.
Thank, er, heavens for that.
Since then, I can barely remember having had a full night's (non-alcohol induced) sleep. Don't get me wrong, it's not always been his (or Charlotte's) fault. Mostly, but not always. It's just what parenting does to you - or certainly has done to me.
I didn't even have any grey hair in 2008. Now, when she sits on my shoulders, Charlotte says she can see my "real head."
But it's been an adventure.
And over that time, Jamie has grown up a touch and now even has a baby of his own.
Yup, Granny Elizabeth in Portstewart bought him a Furby for his birthday.
She's always been a particularly cruel woman.
Tonight we'll have a party tea for him including cake, and something else is planned for Saturday.
Seven years. Bloody hell.
Good fun though.
