March 31, 1997 was a bank holiday Monday. My wife was heavily pregnant with our first child.

She looked like a giant basketball which had a little face drawn on it with a felt pen. But she was only eight months pregnant.

As we lazed in bed on that fateful bank holiday morning she told me once again that she thought she had made a mistake mating with such a ridiculously big bloke.

"It's my fault," she moaned, "my last boyfriend was normal-sized and nice. I should have had a baby with him.

"Look at the size of your bulbous great marrow of a head.

"If the baby takes after you, I'm a goner."

"Listen," I said, "if you are worried, we could change our plans and have the birth in hospital."

"No! I'm having it at home, in a water tank and you are coming in the tank with me."

"Okay, whatever you say, as long as I can keep my pants on."

"No! No pants, you are naked in the tank with me or the whole thing is cancelled."

"You just want to humiliate me in front of the midwives!"

"That's right, and I'm planning to have my mum and my mate Carol there as well, so I suggest you spend the next month getting some Clearisil on those buttocks of yours."

It was while my wife was laughing cruelly into my helpless, obedient face that her waters broke.

"Oops," she said, "I think you'd better call the midwife."

"But it's Bank Holiday Monday!"

"Do it!"

I couldn't believe that the birth was going to happen a month early. I simply wasn't ready.

I needed at least another month so I could grow an oily beard like the ones all the helpful partners wear in those natural birth books.

A midwife came round and told us to go straight to hospital.

"I can't say whether it's premature or not," she told us.

"It is a good size, maybe it's just ready to come out. Or perhaps there was a mix-up with dates.

"The best thing to do is go to hospital, get everything checked out and then take it from there."

I can't drive, so I rang my mate Single Simon and asked him for an emergency lift in his mini.

"What's in it for me?" he asked blearily into his bedside phone.

"If it's a boy, I'll name it after you."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

"And if it's a girl you can call her Simoney. Right?"

"Forget it, I'll ring someone else."

"All right, all right, I'm on my way..."

By the time Simon had driven us to the hospital my wife was pretty obviously about to erupt.

Tourists and geologists flocked to see her, but they did not stay long and they were all very glad that they did not own property in her vicinity.

After conducting a series of tests, a doctor told us that we were in labour.

"But I don't want to have it in hospital!" screeched my wife.

The doctor sat me down for a top-level conference.

"Look," she said, "technically this baby is premature and should be born in hospital but it's a good weight and sounds perfectly healthy.

"I had my children at home and

I'm all for home births.

"Your wife is a strong-willed woman and I think we should go with her instincts.

"I'm going to ring a very special midwife and get her to meet you in the hospital car park, then she can follow you home in her car!"

"Are you serious?"

"Yes! Exciting isn't it?"

"Kind of."

In the hospital car park, a porter came over and asked us if we needed any help.

"The maternity ward is on the top floor," he said. "Looks like you are in a hurry to get up there."

"Er... no," I said. "We've just been up there, now we are going home again."

The porter looked at my wife in amazement. "You're going the wrong way, mate, you're mad!"

"We're not mad!" I replied crazily, "we're strong willed!"

Simon drove us back from Brighton to Lewes as fast as he could without losing the special midwife who was chasing behind us in a natty, pink sports car.

I looked out of the back window and gave her a friendly wave.

"Stop the car!" bellowed my wife, "I need to lie down in that field!"

"Keep going!" I yelled at Simon. "She doesn't know what she's saying!"

"Stop the car!"

"Keep driving!"

"Stop!"

To his eternal credit, Simon kept calm and got us home.

Then he cooked himself a massive fry-up and watched my Laurel and Hardy videos while, upstairs, my wife gave birth.

The water tank was booked for three week's time so we didn't bother with that.

My wife stomped around a lot and refused all forms of pain relief.

I don't know what I did, but I'm reasonably sure I was present.

By 9pm our baby son came fiercely into the world with a scream that said: "Oi! I thought I had another month in there - this isn't fair!

"My bloody skin doesn't fit yet! Look at it! Its all baggy! And get that stupid light out of my eyes!

"Who are all these people anyway? Last time I was down here I was an Apache chief. This looks like some tedious, post-graduate flat in Sussex.

"Oh well. Where's the breast? I might as well have a drink now that I am here."

That night I crept into bed with my new family and told my wife again how happy she had made me.

I had thought she was asleep but she opened one eye and whispered: "You're just happy because you didn't have to take your pants off."

"True, very true. But all I can say is this has been the best day of my life and this is the proudest I have ever been."

"All right," she smiled drowsily. "Don't get too big headed about it."

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.