Kicked in the fingers.

Been meaning to mention this for a while, but just kept forgetting.

For the last week or so, my hands have been repeatedly kicked and punched, through the outer layer of Vic's belly. That is to say, we're going to have a child of some sort. Twenty-seven weeks gone now, so the violent little so-and-so's viable already, with luck.

We don't know whether it's a boy or a girl — the Ulster Hospital don't tell you, in case they get it wrong and you sue them for the cost of pink wallpaper. But we have seen lots of scans now — a scan every couple of weeks, in fact — and he or she seems to be doing perfectly well.

We're very happy, as you might well imagine, especially since this is far from the first attempt. The last couple of years, in fact, have been kind of similar to Hell at times. But I won't go on about that.

Anyway, that's it, really. Not so much fishing for congratulations as warning you that this blog might soon degenerate into a journal of nappies and Fimbles. But not Ballamory. Ballamory will not be tolerated in this house. Hey, award-winning BBC people! "Hoolie" does not rhyme with "story" and "nursery" does not rhyme with "day". This you call educational? Grr.

I am hoping that, after the birth, he or she will stop kicking me.