I had been feeling a bit guilty about rejecting Lewisham hospital as the place to have my baby. I am generally proud to come from Lewisham and have happily availed myself of many of its products and services over the years, e.g. the Fox & Firkin, Favorite Chicken & Rib, Cash Converters, not to mention Catford Island (home to an exceptionally clean MacDonald's and a decent Lidl).

Then I had dinner with Sureka, who is also pregnant.

"I'm not having my baby in Lewisham hospital," she said.

"Me neither," I said. "I feel a bit bad, though. It's probably just as good as all the other hospitals."

"I was in there the other day, actually," said Sureka. "While I was sat in the waiting room, I saw a mouse run right across the floor."

The thing is, King's is probably nearer as the crow flies anyway.

Snakes on the Brain II

Mentioned the Snake thing to our friend J-Money, who reckons he knows what the child's reaction would be to learning his middle name on his 18th birthday:

"So THAT'S why I'm called Trouser Hobbo."

Snakes on the Brain

Pete and I have been discussing baby names. Or to be accurate, I have been suggesting baby names, and Pete has been saying, "No, I'm not sure about that one," before going back to reading the NewsNow Manchester City page.

However, he did have one contribution to make.

"The baby's middle name is going to be Snake, right?" said Pete.

"Ha ha," I said.

Pete and I had previously joked about this. That's joked, in the same way we joked about having an entirely Top Gun-themed wedding (and in reality only went for a bit of theme music and aviators for all guests).

"I'm serious," said Pete.

"What?"

"I think it would be really cool."

I looked at him. I realised that he was indeed being serious, and that I had married a madman.

"So you want to send a child into a South East London school playground with the middle name Snake?"

"No," said Pete.

I breathed a sigh of relief. He was joking after all!

"We would keep its middle name a secret until it was 18."

It took me several moments to regain my composure. "What," I began politely, "the **** are you talking about?"

"Just imagine. I would have absolutely loved it if my parents had come to me on my 18th birthday and said, 'Son, now you have come of age you have a right to know. Your middle name is Snake.'"

A discussion followed. We began to argue about practicalities of hiding someone's own name from them until adulthood. At some point I realised I was having an actual debate with a grown man about calling a real child Snake, and decided to shut it down.

"I'm not having this conversation any more. If you want a baby called Snake, I suggest you impregnate someone else."

I think it's a girl, anyway. In which case, as per last month's poll, we're calling it Scherzinger.