Birth day

On this day, nineteen years ago, my son (known herein as Plague) was born in St Mary’s Hospital in Manchester. It was a long and difficult labour (not for me) and when he emerged I held him while Madame was attended by the nurses for the violence of the birth. Being adopted, I was looking at the first blood relative I had ever set eyes on.  I recognised, not the face at first, but the hands. Then the face resonated with photos I’d seen of myself as a baby.

Now he’s taller than me, has infinitely more hair and better looks and can play the guitar better.  Where did we go wrong?

On the evening of the birth day, I wrote this.