Fashionably late: Moderate to Poor

Emmanuel is fed up of waiting for the baby to arrive.
He tells me this dispairingly, as though he is being personally inconvienced by the situation.

I understand. Nine months must seem like a very long time when you're only four. It's long enough when you're thirty-five.

I'm doing my best, I tell him. I must be the most active nearly-9-months-pregnant woman you've ever had the good luck to bump into. There are not many of us out fast-walking first thing in the morning, I can assure you.
Yesterday I even had a few admirers as I pounded up and down the steps at the park.

I've also been practising the "visualisation process" learned with my midwife. In case you've never had cause to dabble in this practise, it basically involves closing your eyes and concentrating really hard on the image of your cervix opening.
(yes, feel free to mock).
Unfortunately, the baby doesn't seem to be having the same vision.

Maybe he just really wants to be a Scorpio?