So, I’m back on the blog after a brief and unplanned hiatus. I apologise for my silence, but the New Year saw me succumb to a rather virulent strain of bronchitis, so as you can imagine, New Year didn’t pan out exactly as I had planned. We had expected to welcome in 07 in Sydney, watching the most expensive civic firework display in the world from one of the best surfing beaches in the world drinking Bundaberg (possibly the worst rum in the world) until the sun came up. Unfortunately, although we made it to Sydney, all I saw over New Year was the four walls of a serviced apartment. I could hear the fireworks outside of my window, but I was too delirious to work out whether they were part of my fever or part of the festivities. Ironically, I was in paradise and the only place I wanted to be was back home in my own bed. The only New Years resolution I made for 2007 was to once again breathe through my nose!
Quite a lot has changed since I last blogged. We have of course, welcomed in the New Year. But following our quiet spell in Sydney we have spent the last two weeks travelling around the tropics. We have been enjoying the sun, catching up with old friends and exploring as much of North Queensland as we possibly could in the short space of time available. However, although swimming with turtles on the Great Barrier Reef and camping in tropical rain forests is pretty exciting, it’s got nothing on what my wife Carol laid on me just before we embarked upon or excursion.
Before I divulge what our big and somewhat miraculous news is, let me take you back to a doctors surgery in Hackney on a nondescript London morning earlier last year. I had an appointment to see Doctor Guha, our jovial yet dry local GP. I had been waiting on some test results and after half an hour of sitting in the waiting room staring at the obligatory tropical fish, my number was called and I entered Dr Guha’s office obediently. Receiving a medical prognosis is never easy, but Dr Guha has a knack of making light of most awkward situations. His warm Pakistani accent makes the most severe prognosis sound affirming. for example, when I found out I had an unusually high cholesterol count I asked him, other than the obvious dietary adjustments and upping of exercise levels, whether I needed to take any other precautions in my day to day life. He replied in typically dry fashion “Nothing really, but if you feel any tingling in your left arm go straight to hospital, you are having a heart attack! Oh, and when you go to dinner check the restaurant has a working CPR machine”. You can imagine how comforting I found his bedside manner to be. When my wife asked him for tips on fertility he told her to “Have lots of sex, preferably with your husband”. I remember him mentioning he had originally wanted to work in theatre, I had obviously misunderstood which type of theatre!
Unfortunately, this time the subject matter was a little to sensitive for the Guha routine. He looked up from browsing my medical file and said bluntly ” You have lazy sperm”. His clipped Pakistani accent seemed to give the statement more resonance. I remember thinking why should I be shocked, this only correlates with every other report I have received over my illustrious life. It was hardly the first time I have heard the words ‘must try harder’, and given my lifestyle choices over the past years I kind of deserved it. But this was serious, no more kids! (some may argue this is a positive thing, but believe me my wife is not one of them) Anyway, after suffering the ignominy of beating off into a plastic cup and having my potency, or lack there of, analysed by persons unknown, it turns out that Dr Guha’s blunt choice of words was misleading. My sperm were far from lazy. Stressed, nervous, relaxed, stubborn perhaps, but not lazy. It turns out my little warriors may have been working to rule but they still got the job done. You see my wife told me just before Christmas that she was pregnant, yes pregnant and the first Christmas card I wrote was to Dr Guha, second class of course, because it doesn’t matter when it gets there as long as it gets there, if you know what I mean!
So, we are now travelling with an extra passenger on board and we have stopped arguing over who is the designated driver. It has obviously changed things radically regarding our exploits in Australia. Carol is embarking on the kind of diet that would make Morgan Spurlock blush and I have lost my drinking buddy, which may or may not be a good thing. But our slow to work miracle just makes the whole adventure seem even more exciting. Unfortunately, the little Bub won’t see any of it, but he, or she, has the fact that we finally found a place that moves at the same pace as my sperm to thank for it’s existence. As the doctors down here would say, ‘no dramas, no worries. Ah, just relax, give the Sheila a good root and you’ll be right’.