My younger sister, Kate, is currently wiling away the hours in the maternity ward of Arrowe Park hospital.
Like me, she kind of grew up late. In her case, that meant not flying the nest until she was in her mid thirties. She's always been the sensible, cautious one.
But fly the nest she did, all of 2 miles up the road to the centre of Neston. She's a gregarious old bird alright. I spent the best part of ten years with a big bottle of beer, a pipefull of grass, and a tabbycat called Skitty for company. She married Shaun.
Her baby (they decided to let nature take it's course, and be kept in willful ignorance about it's sex) has decided it quite likes to be sideways on. Not the ideal position for squeezing out of a birth canal. It's a lively litle bugger though, by all accounts - hence the nickname.
100 years ago, this would possibly have killed her and/or the baby. These days, it means she stays in maternity while they monitor the situation. The baby is a few days over term, and is likely to tip the scales at close to a stone. Poor Kate is only 5 foot 4. And she's 40 years old. Times like this, I'm glad I'm a man.
The upshot is, sometime in the next week or so, I'm going to be an uncle again. I hope it's sooner rather than later, and I hope it all goes OK.