Are we having a wolf baby?

About 20 years ago I acquired the nickname 'Wolf Boy'. I can't remember which one of my friends who was downing pints of lager with me came up with the moniker that night in the Pilgrim Public House in the 'Gavin & Stacey' town of Billericay, but I do recall it came about after telling Chief, Merch and Woodsie that as an eight-year-old boy I had extremely hairy arms. I then also stupidly revealed that at that time my sister helped keep my hairy back under control by waxing it for me once a month. After laughing so much that they emptied their pints of Fosters onto the floor, one of them howled out the order my way: "Get the beers in Wolf Boy!" The name stuck and although they've afforded me the dignity of shortening it over the years to just 'Wolf', I've found myself explaining my nickname and the hairy back story to anyone who's been within earshot when I've been out drinking with the Billericay Boys.

I've told you this story because last week my wife told me that in preparation for our newborn's arrival  I should "trim up my hairy chest as Joe-Joe won't be able to feel your skin through all that wolf hair." Now, I must admit that I've been a bit lazy in recent weeks and although my back hair has been tamed after a session with my wife's Veet hair removal cream, my chest was about an inch deep in growth. I'm too much of a wimp to use wax strips for my chest, but I have a BaByliss for Men hair trimmer that does a good job on a number two setting. However, for this task I dispensed with both the number two and the number one settings and de-haired freehand by putting the blades as close to the skin as I could. On finishing I proudly showed off my now very white hairless chest to my wife, but the reaction I got wasn't the one I'd expected. She laughed (OK that was expected) and then she stroked my chest and blurted out: "You idiot! You've left loads of stubble! You can't give Joe-Joe skin-to-skin contact now as you'll give him a rash."

Deborah's been trying to persuade me to have a wax treatment to get rid of the remaining stubble, but I'm sure this will be as painful as childbirth. Anyway, I came up with a solution telling her that I will shave my chest the day before she goes into labour. This morning, as I was lookingfor a sharp enough razor for the job in hand I came across a very large bottle of Gaviscon in the medicine cabinet. I asked my wife why she'd bought it and she replied: "The doctor prescribed it for me. It's to treat the acid indigestion that I've been suffering from throughout my pregnancy. Apparently, it's a sign that Joe-Joe's going to be a hairy baby."

Maybe I won't have to shave my chest after all. Joe-Joe and Me can just have a hairy wolf hug together.