The Missus just sent me into a fit of panic. We had just finished a feed of balsamic chicken, with mashed potato and garlic, when she began stamping her feet on the ground with a baffled look on her face. She leant down to feel the couch and ground between her legs.
"Why's it all wet down here," she asked.
Instant flashbacks from the previous weeks antenatal class struck me like a wet bag of shit. People in the know call it amniotic fluid. I was dumbfounded and instantly clutched The Missus between the legs. Holy creeping Jesus, I thought, at least I finally finished The Girls cot before she decided to make her final bid for freedom.
The Missus was even more stunned than I was. She glared at my hand between her legs and asked what the hell I was doing. My fear and anxiety stunted my vocal chords. To signify the sheer magnitude of this situation I dabbed at the wet patch on the ground and sniffed it.
In the antenatal classes, the teacher told us that amniotic fluid had a very distinct, pungent smell.
There was no odour. I finally realised The Missus' pants were dry as a bone.
The Missus began laughing like a fiend, explaining the wet patch on the ground was condensation from her water bottle. As it turned out The Missus had forgotten that she moved it only moments before. So it's good to know that in a high pressure situation like that, I will turn into a mute buffoon with a blank stare on my face.
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