Sixty-seven years ago, to the very week, William Bird had been born. ‘I fancy Wagner as a name,’ his mother said in labour. ‘I read it in a book.’ Her husband, who was there at the time, agreed at once, thinking this was not the time to argue. They were an inefficient couple and had left it late before calling the midwife. ‘What shall we do,’ said the husband, ‘if the woman does not come? Or does not come in time? Could I deliver the child myself?’ He bit his nails and murmured further. ‘You couldn’t deliver a letter,’ screeched the confined lady, laughing madly between bouts of pain. She was a person of forty-five, who claimed in after years that she had not known until the day before that she was about to bear a child. ‘“you have got fat,” he said to me, and then he said he liked me fat; he said he thought it right for a woman to be plump or at least a little plump. “It is all gas,” I said; “I am blown out with gas from indigestion, I must see a doctor. Heavens above, what a thing to happen!” “Your time has come,” the doctor said. Well, I didn’t believe the man. “We never,” I said; be he said yes, no doubt at all. “Here’s a surprise,” I said. “You’ve sired a child.” “A child,” he said, “at your age? Heavens above, what a thing to happen!”’