The start of the end of my life?

14 years ago today, the end of my immature and irresponsible life ended, and my (supposedly) sensible and balanced life began. 14 years ago today, at exactly 12:14 in the morning, John was born. His mother would like to say she remembers it vividly, but the truth is she was enjoying the tap dance by the giraffe in the corner of the room and the rubber gloves that were doing the dance of the sugarplum fairy on the bedside table (she was up to her eyes in pethidine, entonox, and Shepherd's Pie). I would also like to say I remember it vividly, but I was fighting sleep after being up for 20 hours, and waiting for things to happen. Eventually he was delivered with the aid of forceps, and entered the world weighing 6lbs, 7oz. He then spent the next 24 hours sleeping, puking, farting, and crapping. Some 14 years later and he now weighs considerably more, he doesn't puke so much, he does fart even more, and he still can't flush the loo after a good crap. He also whines just as much, but his taste of music is more refined (if you can call "From Paris to Berlin" music). His Taid (Welsh for grandfather) took the excursion into God's country to spend the day with him, and an educational visit was taken to Swansea (ancient Welsh for 'Shithole that raises chavs without respect') to see the National Waterfront Museum. This was promptly followed by a hasty visit to the pub for lunch, and of course my father objected immensely*. He's been out all afternoon playing with his new street hockey set, and has now come in to settle down and watch the Goonies. Does he not realise in 7 years it'll all be downhill?

7 years? Shit, that's half his age! I suddenly feel really old.

*may contain traces of lie