Amid all the depressing news on TV of recent times, I misheard the phrase ‘the new normal’ as ‘the new Norman’. And from little things like that, come little stories like this.
Clare huffed and puffed as the midwife busied herself between her legs.
‘Almost there, sweetheart!’ cried Norman. ‘One more big push and we can meet Norman Junior!’
‘I’ve told you,’ gasped Clare, red in the face. ‘We’re not calling him Norman Junior.’
She let out an almighty scream, and as she did so a wriggling, squalling baby popped out into the midwife’s arms. ‘Looks like we’ve got a healthy little one,’ she said. Both parents smiled with relief as Clare was handed the child. Norman stepped forward for a closer look, and froze.
The baby was black. But that made no sense, because Norman and Clare were both the colour of undercooked oven chips. Well, no sense unless… Norman glared at his wife. She bit her lip.
‘Okay, then, we’ll call him Norman Junior,’ she said.