In the newspaper business there’s a name for a story that makes your jaw hit the floor and your eyes pop out of your skull: ‘a marmalade dropper’. For instance, the disclosure that HM Revenue and Customs had misplaced the personal records of 25 million people was ‘a marmalade dropper’, as was the revelation that Lembit Opik was going out with one of the Cheeky Girls. However, I have always thought of this as a figure of speech rather than a literal description of the effect a particular piece of news produces. Until now, that is.
‘Darling,’ said my wife as I sat at the breakfast table munching a piece of toast. ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Do you promise you won’t be cross?’
‘You haven’t been fined for not paying the Congestion Charge again?’
‘No, no, it’s nothing like that.’
‘What then?’
‘I’m pregnant.’
Splat.
‘What?!? You’re kidding. How did that happen? I mean, I know how it happened, but …oh Jesus.’
To put this in perspective, we already have three children, all born since 2003. Indeed, the latest arrived six months ago. Add another to that list and we’ll have four under five. I used to joke that Caroline and I had gone from being Dinkies (Double Income No Kids) to Sitcoms (Single Income Two Kids Overextended Mortgage) in the space of 19 months, but that now seems like a model of financial prudence compared to the leap from two kids to four in less than a year. Where on earth are we going to put them?
When I calmed down, I began to realise that there might be some benefits to becoming Acton’s answer to the Waltons. For one thing, I needn’t worry any more about how I’m going to afford to educate my offspring.
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