Now’s not the time to be in a rush

I’VE spent the last few weeks on a rolling stand-by to drive to the hospital.

As of today, my partner is three days off being the full 40 weeks pregnant with our first child.

I mean, I say I’m on stand-by because it sounds cool, like I’m some fighter pilot waiting to be scrambled and intercept the incoming Russian jets.

The reality is - I have recently found out - a little more humdrum.

I’m repeatedly informed by people more in the know than myself about these sort of things that there are any number of myths surrounding having a child, and unfortunately I think I fell for one of them hook, line and sinker.

I’m not entirely sure why, or where the idea even came to me, but I’d long assumed that when your wife was giving birth was the one time in your life you were allowed to drive like you were in Wacky Races.

I thought it was a sort of an unwritten rule that at times of imminent childbirth people were allowed to disregard the Highway Code entirely and drive at exactly the speed they desire and in the manner of their choosing - in order to get to the hospital.

Police were obviously OK with this, and there wasn’t a court in the land that would uphold a speeding ticket given to someone taking their labouring partner to hospital.

In my head I look like a moustachioed getaway driver from the Sweeney, gunning it through red lights and swerving in and out of pedestrians, albeit with my little hybrid car sounding more like a mobility scooter than the Ford Capris of the Sweeney age.

Anyone who’s ever watched TV knows that all you have to do is explain to the police officer who pulls you over that your partner is in labour and they will gleefully wave you on your way, perhaps even with a blue-light escort.

The only logical explanation is that I’d seen something like this happen on an episode of the Bill or something when I was a kid and probably took it slightly too literally.

To tell the truth I was slightly looking forward to doing my Damon Hill at Monaco impression, but alas, it seems this - like so much of the childbirth we see on TV - is a myth.

Adrenaline, it turns out, stalls labour - something from our ancient history about suddenly having to fight off predators.

I’ve no doubt there will be plenty of drama and excitement once we get to the hospital, but on the way there the aim is to drive with all the serenity of a pensioner on a sunny Saturday morning, pootling back from the corner shop with eggs, milk and the papers.