I’d never buy a cap like that for a child because what a parent is really saying with that kind of stuff is “Look how beautiful my baby is.” Which is not really on, not for the British, anyway. It’s not how we go about things. Or is that a wrong thing to say these days?

Also Melinda had just bought one of those “Baby On Board” stickers for their Fiat. Sam says he’s astonished that George allowed it, and that nobody buys those any more. I must say, I can’t say I like them overmuch. I mean, what is the parent trying to say to other road users? And what are other road users supposed to make of it? “Thanks awfully for the tip because I’d been thinking about driving into the back of you, but since you’ve got a kid in the car I’ll cover the brake.” It’s absurd. I’m going to have my own sticker made. “Sadly my husband and I have not yet been blessed with the divine gift of a child but we’d still prefer not to die in a car crash, thank you.”

Anyway, when we’d finally exhausted all the photos and cleaned the vomit off everything I got round to telling Melinda all about my strangely daunting encounter with Carl Phipps, or Heathcliff as I often think of him. I know I was only going to tell you, Penny, but I just could not keep it to myself. Well, guess what? Melinda thinks I should shag him! Yes! Shag him. I couldn’t believe it! Melinda of all people. She’s normally so proper. But she said that this was different, that these were special circumstances on account of the fact that Carl Phipps is acknowledged as one of the most dishy men in the country. Did I think, Melinda enquired, that if Sam got the chance of slipping one to Sharon Stone he would pass it up?

“Yes, I bloody well do!” I said. Rather too loudly, in fact, because people looked.

I don’t think Melinda really meant it. I mean, she’s never been at all indulgent of the idea of infidelity. I remember one New Year’s Eve George gave me a kiss and she got quite funny about it. I mean it was quite a long kiss, I admit, but it was New Year’s Eve and the bonging takes a very long time if you start at one and go on to twelve.

Reading between the lines, my guess is that George is probably not seeing to Melinda’s needs properly at the moment. I believe this often happens after a baby. The hubby starts to see the wife as a mother not a lover and feels strange about lusting after the thing that is feeding his child. Also, Melinda hasn’t quite got her figure back yet (poor thing). That’s understandable, of course, it’s only been a couple of months and it’s far too early for her to worry about that sort of business. Although I did think that three cakes was a little bit reckless. I only had one and a bit.

Anyway, I told Melinda that I had no intention of betraying Sam because I love him and that sexually he gives me everything I need. Which is basically true, on the whole, I suppose. Certainly it’s true about loving him, anyway. Although sexually I must confess to being not particularly satiated at the moment. The problem is that he seems to think of nothing but the result of his sperm test. In fact he’s obsessed with it. Which is not, I have to admit, particularly attractive in a man.

Yo, stud!

Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!!! All RIGHT! Result, my son! Here we go, here we go! Result! Re-flipping-sult! Sorted. Oh yes! Sorted for sure. Passed! Passed my sperm test. The letter arrived this morning.

At first I didn’t want to open it. It was just like my “A” levels. I remember I was grapepicking in France and I had to ring home and get my mum to open the envelope. I can remember walking round that French phonebox for half an hour, too nervous to make the call. Of course I couldn’t hang around for half an hour this morning because I had to go to work, but I did make Lucy open the envelope and read the letter for me. As she slid a knife along the crease of the paper everything seemed to be in slow motion. I can remember thinking that now at least the waiting was over, whatever fate might bring.

I must say things started pretty grimly. There was no personal element at all, no “Dear sir,” no “Brace yourself, mate,” no “Better get yourself a drink, you sad pathetic excuse for a man, because you have no sperm.” Just a printed form on which they fill in your results with a ballpoint pen. So much for our more caring society. They do not even offer counselling.

Well, Book, I am here to tell you that at first I thought that all was lost. The very opening line (under the deceptively bland heading “motility”) said “30% sluggish”. Honestly, that was the very word they used. Sluggish. A horrible, horrible word, reminiscent of slimy snail-like creatures that can’t be bothered moving their arses on garden paths in order to avoid being stamped on. Sluggish! It’s such a loaded term, not clinical at all. I wanted a doctor’s reaction, not a critic’s! And if they’re going to use unscientific language couldn’t they have thought of a more friendly expression? Like “relaxed”, perhaps, or “unhurried”? If they’d told me I had relaxed sperm I could have handled it. Cool, laid-back sperm, sperm that liked to hang out and chill with the other guys. That would be fine. But “sluggish”? It’s almost as if they were trying to be unpleasant.

Anyway, the next line was worse! Yes, worse! I nearly cried. It said “41% swimming in the wrong direction”! I mean, what a thing to say about the very stuff of a man’s loins! My head was spinning. I thought, I’ve got stupid sperm! The stuff’s backing away up my dick all these years! Then I thought, “Hang on, this is ridiculous!” This test is rigged. How are they supposed to know what’s the right direction, for heaven’s sake? They’re in a plastic pot! I had this vision of all my sperm desperately groping about hither and thither, banging their heads against the sides of the container, lashing their tails around like fish in a bucket, thinking, “We’re genetically programmed to find an egg here. Where is it?”

By the end of the letter I was ready to slit my wrists.

In conclusion it said, “90% useless”! Bad swimmers, poor motility. A load of rubbish in general.

So now the full and terrible truth was upon me. I’m not a man. I’ve failed my sperm test!

I was already asking myself whether they’d let me take it again. If it was like your driving test, I mean I had four goes at that when in actual fact I should have passed on the first time except that my examiners were a bunch of total Nazis. Then of course it dawned on me that the sperm tester must be a Nazi too! A jealous, small-minded petty official dedicated to ruining the lives of better men. A hopeless and inadequate man, embittered because his own sperm were small and sickly and couldn’t find their way out of his trousers. A man who took his revenge upon society by becoming a sperm tester and failing anyone who came up with the real goods.

That had to be it. Give a fellow a sperm tester’s uniform and suddenly he thinks he’s Hitler!

I was on the very point of phoning my MP and demanding a full recount when Lucy pointed out that stamped at the bottom of the form in big letters was the word NORMAL.

Oh, the relief! It turns out that my pathetic percentages are par for the course, that pretty much all sperm is 90 per cent rubbish. Apparently there’s only a couple of decent wrigglers in an entire wristful. For all the macho pride and posturing of us men, most sperms just simply aren’t up to it. They’re sluggish. They’re stupid. They’re always wandering off in the wrong direction. They don’t know where they’re going.

Lucy said they sound exactly like a pub full of blokes, which was quite funny, I suppose.

Anyway, that was it. Passed. Normal. I was so pleased I danced round the kitchen and spilt my coffee.