Pregnant pause ends with hurrah for Harry

Grand Central column
Grand Central column

​​Lip balm. Check! Water spray. Check! Fan. Check! Snacks. Check! Drinks. Check! Drugs. Check!

​Enough about me​, let’s concentrate on the ​subject in hand.

Harry ... he's one of our own

Harry ... he's one of our own

Midwife’s hands, as it goes, a​fter my darling daughter gave birth to ​a ​beloved boy.

Giving your columnist his first grandson. And more material for such musings.

They say there’s one born every minute. No, sorry, this sucker digresses again.

Sources​ in fact​ suggest (citation needed) 353,000 babes ​daily land on our planet.

Child-friendly charity UNICEF​ estimate​s​ every second sees 4.3 births.

The .3 matters because I was that runt, so ugly ​the ​maternity ​nurse slapped my parents.

And yet, and yet, each delivery is an undeniably unique marvel.

Hinduism to Buddhism, Methodism to Darwinism, irrefutably a miracle on a major scale.

​Thanks to Mother Nature, and mums the globe over, we all benefit big-style from this most basic, but bountiful, gift bestowed upon us.

Literary legend Mark Twain suggested “the two most important days in your life are the day you were born ... and the day you find out why.”

Others are less philosophical, celebrity couple Beyoncé and Jay-Z likely, after twins recent arrival, hailing 21st century childbirth “totes amazeballs”.

Less than an hour on reassuringly from Friday the 13th, our 6lb 3oz bundle of fun shares his birthday with Roger Moore and Ralph Lauren, Dwight Eisenhower and King James 11 ... not too shabby a desert island dream dinner party.

And then to onerous name game. As my daughter Laura takes her middle moniker – sole mention in marriage vows – from my dear departed mum Doris, and granddaughter Ella’s full title includes Paige as nod to her matriarchal lineage, so Harry harks back to my late great father.

But, the l’il lad’s dad being staunch Spurs fan, acknowledge more likely paean to Kane, club and country star striker and hopeful saviour.

After all he is, echoing Wembley terrace chants, one of our own.

Such a life-changing celebration focuses a middle-aged man’s mind on the world around us.

Hoping likes of chump Trump and wrong ‘un Jong-un desist from war games – in essence a potentially deadly version of playground boys vying to wee highest up a wall – and humanity brings us back from brink that is mass destruction abysmal abyss.

Lighten up, you cry! Surely will, I respond.

And, If you’ve read thus far, not only do you deserve a medal the size of Eric Pickles’ pickle tray, hundreds more mini ’uns have joined us since the intro at calculated rate of 255 per minute.

Health and happiness to them all, says I. And their devoted families, similarly smitten by unconditional universal joy that is new-born bug.

So, referencing Shakespeare – even though he never quotes my work – “Cry God for Harry, England and Saint George”.

In accordance with ​​Sanskrit mantra,​ ​​this special soul is our latest embodiment of pure love. Or, if you will, Harry Krishna.