19:29

He is as quiet as a mouse. Big, dark blue eyes (subject to change) appear to examine the entire contents of the room. In reality, they make out fuzzy objects, and he has no idea what has just happened. I expect he senses who Mum is, and smells who Dad is, following an unwise failure to apply anti-perspirant before we left the house in the early hours of this morning. That seems a long time ago.

And then the hiccups start. This was a common occurrence in the womb. I am reticent to use the word cute. To my mind it is a word by women, for women. That is not to cause offence, but to highlight my own feelings of indignity suffered when referred to as cute by the well-meaning wife following an act of stupidity or impracticality. It is unbecoming of a man.

But he is cute. And the hiccups add to this. He is the youngest human being I have ever seen. And, despite preparing for the worst, heeding warnings of emerging baby’s bruises and swellings, I am utterly amazed by how good looking he really is. I am inclined to say that this was inevitable, but really it was not.

Solomon and Mum are wheeled to the post natal ward to keep tabs on both following the drawn out labour. I see them settled in and return home at 11pm. Drained, emotional (still), wishing to share my uncontainable joy with my own family, and to eat some spaghetti bolognaise thoughtfully prepared by the neighbours.