Whenever Margaret Thatcher pops up on the Twitter trending topics, my immediate reaction is to shout, "She's dead!", followed immediately by disappointment when I click her name with wanton enthusiasm to discover that that pact with Satan hasn't fallen through yet. Mind you, it's something of a reflex, to almost be waiting for something and to jump to a conclusion the minute there's the slightest indication of anything.
My cousin got married earlier this year, and although I've seen her a few times since then, it hasn't been as frequent as I used to. She appears to be still surgically attached to her husband, and still looks a little like a fairy. She's also just finished her first ever job, which was - according to Nanna - making costumes for an actress named "Angelina Jolly". Once I'd corrected her on the phonetic pronunciation of /dʒɔːliː/, I had to admit that it's a pretty cool job.
However, it's not what any of us thought when this was announced. When Nanna, in only a way Nanna can, came out with "Have you heard the good news about her?", everyone immediately ejaculated, "She's pregnant!" After all, married and affectionate, and also probably a little careless at times, some people are going to assume that she'll be carrying on our ridiculous family line at some point. At least, that's what most of us are assuming.
Which is why my sister started taking bets on when her first child will be born.
She's got a spreadsheet on her iPhone, which charts everyone's guesses. We've all thrown a quid in, and whoever's the closest, with one month's leeway either way, gets the kitty as soon as there's a birth. I've gone for January 2015, which - according to my sister, who also asked my uncle, auntie, mother, father, 16-year-old-cousin, 12-year-old-cousin and cat - is the outsider choice. Everyone else thinks it's going to be somewhat sooner. Nine months following their first anniversary, or something.
It's nice to know we're all taking the concept of responsible family planning so seriously.