My wife, her obviously visible pregnant bump and I went for a lovely meal at a local tapas restaurant last night. While the patatas bravas probably lacked that spicy kick you’d get in a bar run by a genuine Mardrileño, it was flavoursome and congenial enough that I’d want to go back. The staff were quite charming and poilte. As we left, the conversation went something like this:

Waitress: I hope you enjoyed your evening. (Indicating Mrs T’s bump) When are you due?
Mrs. T: About now?
Waitress: You’re expecting soon?
Mrs. T: No, I’m in labour now.
The waitress went a quite obvious whiter shade of pale.
Mrs. T: (cont.) Don’t worry, I’m not going to give birth here.

That was at about eight-o-clock. Four hours later, precisely on midnight, Mrs. T gave birth - at home - to a little girl hatchling weighing all of 7lbs and 3oz and a sister to hatchling #1.

That was some tapas!