The Barren Mhidwife
Saw the little fellah, skin like a bag of corn, face pealed and pulled back so that the neck rolls could stretch right back over the head, forming a terrible vegetable wrap.
Charlotte had diet breath and everyone knew it. "You smell like a minotaur," she whispered to Kenny, who was still engaged in defruiting Tamsin and trying to get her to play with her vowels.
'Those drooped aitches...urgh!"
Still, he was a baby. What were they expecting? When he did come - late then and later now - shat down like a thick slice of rasperry crumble, skidding past the sadly headshaken Barren Mhidwife and onto the nest of tables that Tamsin had just bought (not unpacked - the Saviour's Day still three weeks away) from the Habitat Express.
"Slippy little sucker ain't he?" yelled Gordon, unpicking marrowbone from his jaws.
"Down!" screamed Charlotte, pulling at his chain, desperate to rub the kind of welt that would look good on her new digicam.
Gordon gave up trying to look at the baby, sat instead pulling at his shirtcuffs in an intermittently Royal way and licking his lips at the shredded vine leaves and dogosnax passed to him under the table by his once daughter Tess.
No one seemed to notice when the Barren Mhidwife, her eyes full of tears, held their newborn, a freshfart smile already on it's tiny squashed face, by it's pound for pound ankles and dashed it's head against the wall.