I’m sure that you are, as I am, enormously excited about the second pregnancy of Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge. As womb news reached me at 11am, I leapt from my desk, punching the air with glee that today’s column would inevitably be required to contain reference to the week-old cluster of cells clinging to the innards of a woman who is rarely permitted to speak in public, but is able to look utterly fragrant and, imporantly, no threat whatsoever to the establishment’s status quo, in a knee-length day-dress.
Obviously I have rang the various television news outlets and offered myself as No 1 royal foetus pundit. For only £250 a brainfart I will appear on your show and guess at potential names (Lion, Khaleesi, Dweezil, Roy) and babble on about “things I’ve seen in shops that there’s no way in hell the baby will ever be bought but, hey, it’s filling rolling news screen time”.
Furthermore, I have no medical qualification in obstetrics, but am absolutely available to guess what it might be like push a seven-to-nine-pound lump out of oneself while 800 television crews shout and jostle by the window. (“Quite stressful”, and “Kate is probably wishing this is all over now”).
Or perhaps I could offer a service where the Royal parents are treated like everyone else having a second baby where the conversation is, “You’re having a baby!? Is it your first?” “No it’s our second”. “Oh!” - now slightly less interested – “Have you still got the pram and everything?” “Yeah, it’s in the attic.” “Cool”. Conversations ends.Reuse content