I don't think I've ever seen so many pregnant women in the City as I have recently. It struck me a couple of days ago, walking past St Paul's on my way to Fleet Street. There were hale and hearty bumps on every corner, crossing every street; it was wonderful to see.

But the profusion, what happened four or five months ago? Something did, strong enough, or to be cheesy about it, potent enough, to change countless lives forever. Traditionally I might have erred towards some big sporting success. Thinking about it logically that can't be the case, much of this has got to have origins earlier than this year's World Cup. Then there's this: big sporting victory equals celebration equals drunkeness. And it's the same ritualised behaviour when events go into reverse and it's a big sporting defeat. Yep, this all means one thing: an incapable man...

Where did the four or five months estimate come from? Me guessing really. I know when a bump is nearly touching the ground, it's time for me to rip off my shirt and tear it into pieces, while someone else shouts for hot water. Well, that's what men always do at these times in the Westerns. So, if the bump is kind of at a right angle, maybe that's half way there?

Plenty of gas and air remember. No, not for you future mums...for your panic stricken, sweating partner instead. You're going to be fine. Happy Birth Days to all of you.