St Vitus Has A New Arrival.....God Help Us!

This is what happens when two people are attracted to each other across a crowded room.......
Last week, my yoghurt pot phone was ringing it's string off, only to convey the cheery news (!) that there is a new addition to the St Vitus clan. That means I've got to go into John Lewis again and nick another christening robe. After the problems I've had with the filth, I reckon they've got a bloody cheek asking.

Aunt Blenny and Uncle Truss (pictured), met two years ago at a Wasp Hiding Course in Hemel Hempstead. Apparently their eyes met and, after his spastic colon pains subsided and Blen stopped singing, they got on like a house on fire. They married in a coal-hole three weeks later, and I was allowed to be bridesmaid with my bestest brown sack poncho thingy and pretty wooden shoes. I even had some goosegrass fashioned into a lovely Sticky Bob ball to hold, and a plantain in my hair. It was rather sickly affair, they are both a bit wet to be blatantly truthful. And there is nothing manly about Truss.

They had a bloody baby. A boy. They've already got one boy, Dimity - a child with too much snot in my opinion. And now we have Ruprecht Widdy St. Vitus. Aunt Vom nearly choked when she heard the name, then cacked herself laughing. Aunt Mary-Jaffa thinks it's sweet. And Aunt Turgid is still preoccupied with her lizards. Aunt Weevil reckons the baby will turn out to be a deviant....? I must ask her on her reasons behind that thinking. Aunt Gourd thinks it's unnatural, as there was no bread van to deliver the baby - she's written the whole thing off as the work of the devil and won't be attending the christening.

Great Uncle Colobus will be pleased as he often said marital couplings should involve BOTH parties.. He thought Truss wouldn't produce a child as he always did it on his own, so that Blen wouldn't have to down tools (pardon the pun) and stop cleaning.

The rellies are coming over from Crackton-on-Butt in the next hour, I've got 62 baps to butter and a vat of Old Earwigs Reserve. It will have to do. Aunt Bench is feeling broody apparently and spent a lot of time at the docks in hope of jiggy-jiggy. My palms are slick with dread at the thought. Just as I asked if she could cope with another one, Folly managed to blow her feet off in the garden after playing with some cotton reels and some old semtex. I rest my case. The only time Bench 'rode the hobby horse' with anyone, she became infatuated, wrote him six love letters each day, and followed him everywhere until the old bill told her not to. And that was thirty-two years ago.

But I couldn't let you go without seeing Ruprecht. The little darling. We will be welcoming him to the town, by marching in a line behind a one-man-band. Then when we get to the barn, the backstreet bishop will perform the service. He's not a real bishop, but he's good at fishing, and Uncle Colobus slipped him a bit of bunce for his troubles. Ruprecht takes after his mother, with a fine moustache already in place.
Born at three years old, he can already tie his shoes (which he came out wearing), and is a marvel with quadratic equations. I might ask him about the woodchuck question.