Nesting

The wife, Deborah, had been clucky for a while now. Her biological clock had turned into a ticking bloody timebomb. In fact, it wasn't so much a ticking clock as that annoying bleep that the microwave gives when it's demanding you retrieve your pot noodle. Anyhoo, can't say I was much fussed about spawning a screaming meatball. I'm the kind of guy who'll pretend to like kids only when around desperate single mothers but'll be the first to use said child as a human shield when the next Raoul Moat gets his shotgun out.

Suffice to say, I did have plenty of enthusiasm for all the dirty spontaneous sex it would take to produce one though. Unfortunately that enthusiasm was quickly curbed by the military precision timetable Debs drew up, eliminating all forms of depraved fetishes I may have had and instead opting for a quick wham-bam-thank you mam routine. Still, a shag's a shag eh, so shouldn't really complain.

So basically, I was the last kind of guy you'd expect to give two hoots about the prospect of becoming a father. But when that egg ejected itself from between my cheeks, something inside me changed. I'm not referring to my now slack sphincter, I'm talking about an uncontrollable urge to nurture and protect.

I was going to hatch that egg come Hell or high water. But how to do it? I'd be buggered if I was going to start foraging about for sticks and twigs to build a thorn filled nest to sit in. I needed to get myself one of them electrical incubators. That would do the job right?