Mrs H is now enjoying her first few days of maternity leave, having signed off on Thursday with the largest cake stand I have ever seen. She is now busy nesting at home, moving between the Swiss ball, the laptop and the swimming pool.
In the meantime I have become increasingly twitchy. I have taken to calling impromptu meetings at work to distract myself from fidgeting, although there are still three weeks to go. I have also started bringing my iPhone with me on my lunchtime runs – just in case.
The best distraction I have found so far is the Tour de France on ITV4. For two weeks now Phil Liggett – who was commentating in 1986 when I would take my bike out around the block and pretend to be Djamolidine Abdoujaparov, the nuttiest of the Green Jersey winner – has talked us through the pain of nearly 4,000 kilometres of cycling.
This year’s Tour has been exceptionally vicious – cobbles, rain, 13% gradient, and it looks like it could be a repeat of the year when, after three weeks, Greg LeMond beat Laurent Fignon by only 8 seconds.
But the Tour ends next Sunday. What do I do then? The IKEA trip has been done, the furniture rearranged, and after five months we have finally put our Henry Moore (print) up. We even bought a family car. But there is only so much tea a man can drink, and only so many holes to drill in the wall.