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January 21, 2004

I Suspect She May Be Making This 'Baby' Thing Up.

Well, there's still no news. A logjam in the delivery suites. And with the skeleton night-time staff about to come onto shift, it's looking highly likely that we're ("we"? I flatter myself) not going to be getting things moving/moved until tomorrow morning.

At this rate I'm going to have to work out how to work the washing machine...

Posted by Tom Dolan at January 21, 2004 05:51 PM

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This is where the press gang get you and you go off to a war you know nothing about and only get home when spadger is ten. Spadger kicks your ankles and says get away from my mum.

there is a bright light in the sky and the walls go sort or fluid and you get sucked up to the space platform of another culture. They recognise how much info you have absorbed about pregnancy and birth and mistakenly believe that you are pregnant and spend the next ten years (earth time) keeping you under obwervation, unaware of human pregnancy span.

you go to the pub, get drunk lose your mobile phone, fall aspeep in a skip and miss the whole thing. When you come home, you frame such a witty question that all is both forgiven and explained (except by her mum)

the whole thing is so convoluted a journey that you write he song of the century

you have some nice pasta and wait by the phone until is time to go to work again

Posted by: Pendlebury at January 21, 2004 08:10 PM

I just hope the press gang get all the elective caesarian women. We found out that they're the ones that have been holding us up.

There's no room at Ye Olde Delivery Suite Inn because the too posh to push brigade are actually too selfish to push.

Posted by: Tom Dolan at January 21, 2004 10:21 PM

Console yourself with the fact that the TPTP's are dooming themselves to never looking good in a bikini on a beach in the seychelles again...

Posted by: Kim at January 22, 2004 02:16 PM

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