The epidemic that sweeps my office every few years is back.
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It's sort of like bird flu but lasts nine months and has a cure that usually involves leaving your dignity on the hospital doorstep.
By August, and all in the space of 12 months, there will have been seven babies born amongst my colleagues. And I work in a reasonably small department.
Three have already made their arrival, two on the same day in the same hospital in adjoining labour wards. If synchronised deep breathing was an Olympic sport, those two would be montys for gold.
The third, little Billy T, clearly decided a nine month gestation period had hairs on it and gave his parents a New Year's Eve gift they won't forget - especially when he was due about now.
Another one is predicted to arrive shortly. His or her dad even has an iPhone app that tells him how much longer until impending fatherhood is upon him, mainly so he can give his bookie enough warning so he doesn't have a heart attack at the sudden drop in his weekly income.
But the final three, all females, have announced their news in the last week or two, straight after each other. It was like passing the pregnancy baton.
My poor editor got back from several weeks off to be confronted by three of his employees standing in his office in suspiciously loose clothing. I haven't checked with him but I'm guessing he either realised what was up or decided to cut back on the biscuit budget.
I'm actually quite surprised I didn't click to our maternity coalition sooner. When they're all together, they look like a three hump camel doing a headstand.
They are also all having very different pregnancies. One has had severe morning sickness, one moderate and one thinks it's an urban myth.
One is also having problems with a metallic taste in her mouth after she eats. Just a hint, stocks in peppermint Life Savers are booming about now.
Anyway, all I know is that come August our workplace is going to be a) much, much, much quieter and b) I'm going to be expecting lots of work aunty cuddles.