Clive goes into shock

I think Clive occasionally dreads returning home from work. I can hear his car the moment it hits the gravel driveway. As I sit by the front door awaiting his entrance I hear him hesitate in the front porch and I'm never sure if he'll come on in or think better of it, turn around, and go somewhere far, far away from the stresses and strains of family life. His family are oblivious to all this. Their hearing isn't as good as mine and the first they know of Clive's return from work is the front door opening and my excited barks. I give Clive my customary greeting - I bounce up and down a few times, roll on his feet and then try and lick him all over. He doesn't seem to like this as much as I do. 'Get that b****y puppy off me!' is his usual greeting to me.

Clive had a nasty turn yesterday. He walked through into the kitchen and turned deathly pale. To say the colour drained from his face was an understatement. He stared at Ginny, eyeballs popping, mouth agape: 'You're not?!'

'Not what? Clive.'

'Pregnant.' His mouth was opening and shutting like a stranded fish on the beach.

'Pregnant!?' Ginny screeched. 'Of course I'm not pregnant.'

'Well why are you wearing that dress?'

Now Ginny's clothing usually errs on the practical and veers just this side of boring. She lives in a small English village and spends her days ferrying children to and from school, clubs and sports facilities. In between that she takes care of me, spends a few hours tapping out articles for women's magazines and pops out to the supermarket now and then. There's not much call for Jimmy Choo and Prada in Ginny's life, even if she could afford them.

Ginny's usual attire is: one pair of jeans (Per Una), one T-shirt (Tesco's Florence and Fred), one piece of sensible knitwear (Next or Marks & Sparks) and that's it. So I have to say it came as quite a shock for Clive to see Ginny in her new (to me) ensemble. For Ginny was wearing a dress. It was quite pretty - pale blue with little polka dots, a sweetheart neckline and a dainty little bow. True it was rather shapeless. The fabric skimmed Ginny's bosom and hung straight down, free of any tailoring whatsoever. It wasn't the most flattering piece of kit but then it wasn't meant to be. Quite why Ginny had chosen to wear one of her old maternity dresses wasn't immediately clear. I mean why would any sane woman choose to wear something that made her look like the proverbial 'back end of a bus'?

'I thought you'd got rid of all your maternity dresses,' Clive was still in shock. He was like a drowning man whose life is flashing before his eyes. Images of nappies, prams, baby sick, potties and massive overdrafts were scooting around his brain. Being chased by the image of him and Ginny in their dotage rocking a cradle. He sat down.

'Please take it off Ginny, it's horrible.'

'I can't.'

'Why not?'

'It's the only thing I've got that doesn't rub against my waist.'

'What's wrong with your waist?'

'I've got rope burn.'

'Rope burn?'

'Yes.' There was a long pause. Ginny looked flustered, she suddenly had an urgent appointment with an onion and a chopping board - the onion got a right seeing to.

'Well? Aren't you going to enlighten me on how you got rope burn around your waist?'

'I was trying to get fit.'

'How?' Clive looked puzzled. It was clear that nothing in his experience of fitness and sport involved the risk of rope burn around the waist.

'I've been dragging a tyre round the back garden. Only today I decided to put two tyres on and I think I overdid it.'

At this point Ginny lifted up her dress to reveal two large red grazes around her waist. It wasn't a pretty sight, and I don't just mean her injuries. 'I can't bear to wear anything tight until those have healed.'

'Well you're not leaving the house wearing that. Everyone will think we're having another baby. I'll take the boys to their clubs tonight. You stay indoors. Don't let anyone see you. And chuck those b****y tyres out.'