We've just been transferred from the Level 1 birthing suite up to our room on Level 5 of The Mercy Hospital For Women and I'm standing over the clear mobile crib staring, unblinking, at our new son.

'You're officially six hours old, Rick Astley,' I tell him.

'You really have stop calling him that now,' Reservoir Mum says, as she repositions her sore and traumatized body on the hospital bed. 'That was just his Wednesdays From The Womb name. That's over. If we don't start calling him by his real name Rick might stick forever.'

'From The Womb is almost over,' I say. 'I've got one more left... the birth post. I'll try and have it ready for Monday.'

'That's ironic,' RM says, 'Posting it on a Monday for the first time when he actually was born on a Wednesday.'

'That is ironic,' I say. 'But you're right. It's time to reveal his true identity.'

We're at McDonald's restaurant in Clayton for four-year-old Michael's birthday party and after thirty minutes of schmoozing with other parents and watching Archie, Lewis and Tyson fang their way through the maze of tunnels and slides in the play area Reservoir Mum finds it appropriate to say, 'You look cute with your black shirt and long shorts... and your little cap... like a little school boy.'

The only thing I can think of in response to this is to pick up a chicken nugget from Lewis's abandoned Happy Meal and crush it in my manly fist. When I open my hand and let the nugget carcass fall to the table all pulpy and sad Reservoir Mum laughs and holds her belly. 'Ouch,' she says. 'That hurt a bit.'

'That's it,' I say, 'To protect you I will adopt an unfunny approach to life until after the birth.'

'What about Wednesdays From The Womb?'

I've just spotted new car salesman Junior at the Nunawading Toyota dealership. I am at least fifteen years Junior's senior and about twice his size. If you were to compare our faces and forearms you would conclude that I was either unusually hirsute, or that he was in grade three. If you called me a bearskin rug you would have to call him a bare skinrug... or at least a piece of fleshy-colored linoleum. If I was a Gorilla he would be one of the several small females in my harem. If he was a naked marmet...

...anyway, physically he is my breakfast and in most circumstances this would offer me an initial social advantage but we're surrounded by several hundred formidable beasts of a metallic nature and I know nothing about them except for the fact that I want a large, reliable, cheap one. I am also unskilled when it comes to money and bartering and when I look into Junior's eyes I see a love of bling-bling and a zeal for spin. I feel large, hairy, out of my depth and as antagonistic as hell.

'RD?' he asks, extending his hand, 'You're here to see the Tarago?'

‘That’s it,’ I say to Reservoir Mum as we’re sitting in the living room working on separate computers. ‘I have no chance of finishing a Wednesdays from The Womb by tomorrow. It’s 10pm and all I’ve written so far is Pregnancy’s going well. Move along now. Nothing to see here…’

‘Heaps has happened,’ RM says. ‘How about the car?’

‘It broke down. We nearly died on the highway. I don’t think it’s such a great story.’

‘I do…’

‘Should I write about Steve telling me we were destroying the environment by having too many kids…’

Reservoir Mum shrugs. ‘I don’t know. You’re too angry about that. I think you should keep The Womb posts funny.’

‘Every post? Always funny? I feel a little peeved and pressured – the prick is trying to make me feel guilty about my choices. I want to write angry. Just one angry From The Womb post.’

‘The car breaking down will be really funny… the engine dying out on the highway, how cool you were under pressure… getting the car across five lanes of peak hour traffic on a major highway… the kids laughing at everyone honking at us and slamming on their brakes…’

I sigh as I put in the earphones and shuffle the iPod to my self-titled playlist, Reservoir Dad. I’m pleased that the first random song is 'Shattered Dreams' by Johnny Hates Jazz. ‘Okay, I’ll have a crack at it.

I read in a Women’s Health mag once that chronic sleep deprivation can be as detrimental to cognitive function and self-awareness as being chronically drunk. And that may explain why I’m experimenting with some new dance moves in my in-laws kitchen and singing ‘Like To Get To Know You Well’ by Howard Jones. I am wearing pants but there’s no guarantee it’ll stay that way because I'm really cutting up the dance floor and they're beginning to chafe me.

Reservoir Mum is sitting at the computer. Reservoir Mother-in-Law is eating some dinner at the dinner table. I’ve convinced myself that both are looking at me in awe.

‘You guys are like the snakes,’ I say to them, after I finish the chorus, ‘And I’m like your snakecharmer...’

‘You’re like a fricken idiot,’ Mother-in-law says, jealously.