The Not-a-Baby-Bump starts to pay its way.

This weekend, Mr. DBM and Cortes have been quite productive. They have managed to produce 43l of your finest Newcastle Brownish ale. Since production, Cortes has been busy making sure that the bottles will be available for the next batch of liquid amber, which will be ready in a couple of weeks time. I have to say, he is doing a grand job! The two of them are quite taken with the whole brewing process - well, Mr. DBM certainly likes the process and I think that I can safely say that Cortes enjoys the end result. If Mr. DBM had his way, he would be installing a microbrewery in the basement as I type. Thank God Mr. DBM doesn't get his way on most things. Can you imagine what this place would be like if he did? There would be a goat in the garden, happily munching away on his underwear, taken from the washing line that he wants to install. The garage would be full of chickens, the driveway would be another vegetable patch and the basement would be a brewery. Not all bad, I grant you........

Anyway, while we were at our local brew emporium bottling the ale, the very friendly and talkative manager came up to us and asked Mr. DBM and Cortes what they thought of the brew. He then turned to me and asked me when I would be able to test it, since I obviously couldn't drink anything alcoholic in my present state. Oh dear, what to say? Luckily, Mr. DBM jumped in with his ever-so-practical explanation of the state of my humungous liver. I meanwhile, skulked off to hide behind Cortes. If only he could stand still for more than five seconds, it would be a great place to hide. Meanwhile, Mr. Manager is horrified by his mistake - not that it is his fault, since I really do look about 7 months pregnant - and can no longer look me in the face or even in my general direction, not that he knew which direction I was in due to my excellent hiding place. Mr. DBM did go into damage control and told him that even a practicing nurse who had been told three times that I was not, in fact, pregnant, still congratulated us on the impending happy event. So, it really was not his fault, and I actually felt sorrier for him than I did myself.

So, as we are getting ready to leave the beer emporium, I go up to the manager, who is behind the counter and can no longer avoid me, and I ask him what specials they have on next month. Well, he doesn't know yet, since it isn't next month for another two days and he doesn't like to plan too far in advance. OK then, perhaps I will just check your webpage in a couple of days then? Not that it really matters, since the next batch has been planned already - a lovely, light, summery honey brown lager. Oh, well that never goes on sale apparently, but since I asked so nicely, we can have a batch for 10% off. Excellent, thinks I. See, it never hurts to ask, does it? I am very proud of my negotiating skills and the money that I have saved the Brew Team. Turns out, it had nothing to do with my negotiating skills, my delightful personality, my witty banter or my winning smile. Rather, it was down to the Not-a-Baby-Bump. The poor guy was just so embarrassed by his little faux pas that he felt the least he could do was give us 10% off our next batch. So, what else can The Bump get me, I wonder?