“Wicked!”, cried Rachel in amazement, examining the perfection that was her newly born god-son as Annabel lay, pale and exhausted in her hospital bed.
“He seemed determined to be late,” said Annabel weakly, yet proudly, “they were just getting ready to operate when he finally deigned to put in an appearance.”
As it turned out, Christopher was late right through his life; late to become toilet-trained, late to walk, late to speak, and as he grew older, late for school and just about every activity in which people thought to include him (which frankly, wasn’t many).
He was only punctual on two occasions, the first being when he holed up with a telescopic rifle in the multi storey car park above the busy shopping mall and carefully picked off at least thirty innocent bystanders waiting for the doors to open.
The second was after a police marksman changed his status for him, and the late Christopher Jackson duly arrived on time for his own funeral, when a solitary mourner, Annabel Jackson, stood morosely by his grave and concurred with the newspapers; her only son had indeed been wicked.