On the great questions of pregnancy and birth, there are many details hidden from me. One thing, however, I know. If you happen to be nine months’ pregnant, and wondering when junior will make an appearance, I know what to do. If you have one of those babies that seems to prefer the womb to the terrors of the world, I have an infallible solution.
You go to Legoland. To be exact, you go to those deceptively simple whirly teacup things, and you subject the human body to the most extraordinary stresses and shears. Your teacup rotates in one direction. The teatray spins the other way. After barely a minute of this I guarantee that – pop – you will have the makings of an expensive event.
It is in memory of this breakthrough in obstetrics that, every year, we go to the Windsor-based theme park, built to celebrate those little plastic cuboids that are so painful to tread on in bare feet.
Rain or shine, we always have a lovely time. The great thing about Legoland is that you are outdoors for the whole day and, at the end, you have that nice, stretched, slightly sunburnt feeling, as if you have played a game of cricket.
Every year we look, with enormous satisfaction, at the Lego Grand Place, Lego San Gimignano, Lego Scottish petrol station and all the million and one other tricks you can do with an irritatingly pointy plastic brick.
Every year, I study my fellow pilgrims to this shrine of fecundity: the mums, the dads, the buggy-borne babies, many of them no doubt induced by the teacup technique.
Such is my professional deformation that I find myself wondering about the politics of these hordes of Lego-persons, and what Legoland has to teach us about their priorities…