Driving along in the car on a pleasant evening earlier this week, I was happily humming along to the toe-tapping sounds of the sadly defunct deathcore stalwarts Anal Prolapse, when my wife leaned over and turned the CD player off and the radio on. Those smug and portentous pips sounded.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ I asked, outraged.
‘I want to know if she’s had it or not,’ my wife replied.
‘If who’s had what?’
‘Kate. The baby.’
‘Why?’
There was no answer to the why, from my wife or, it seems, the rest of the country. No answer to the why from the beaming gumbeys camped outside the hospital with their home-made Union Jack hats and mobile phones held aloft, the modern form of tribute from our quiescent underclass. Nor from the jabbering reporters endlessly telling us in every news bulletin that there was no news whatsoever to report, but that this was still nonetheless the lead story of the day, the fact that there was no news to report.
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