Sunday just hasn’t been the same without the weekly fix of deep breaths and short pants.

’Call the Midwife’ is back on the box. Who would have thought that a programme that tells its tale with such drama and accuracy would have been so successful.

It has brought us all through the front doors and into the lives of ordinary folk and the charity that is their lifeline and help when the nuns and nurses answer the call in the east end slums of London’s Docklands.

Now, giving birth is not really what you would call a spectator sport and in the Cowin household it is rarely a subject for discussion around the dinner table.

We have been blessed with two sons. The eldest is 53, and the second one will be 50 this September. Both boys were born in the Jane Crookall maternity home, and I am pleased to report that they have never given us a moment’s trouble.

Anyway, last Sunday, Brown Eyes and I had just settled down with a drop or two of Merlot to do a spot of box watching. ’Call the Midwife’ was on. We were relaxed, comfortable and pain free. An hour later, two new babies, washed, weighed, and well, and it was all over.

I hadn’t felt a thing.

We topped up our glasses and studied the ’what’s on’.

Coincidentally, there was a documentary about childbirth. Is it safer at home or in hospital?

There was little doubt that a hospital birth was safer and carried less risk to both mother and child than a birth at home.

Now speaking as something of an expert in the childbirth debate, you may remember that I am the father of two boys, and I can confidently say that hospital is without doubt the winner. But let me tell you a little story and see what you think.

It was the first week in September and Brown Eyes was close to giving birth to our second mystery parcel. We couldn’t wait.

It was the Saturday evening practice session for the Manx Grand Prix and I had been working late in the shop. I thought that it would be a good idea to bring home some fish and chips for tea.

I was waiting for the roads to open, so I decided to have a drop or two of Castletown’s finest to pass the time.

Just as a matter of interest, I would like to remind all the readers that this took place 50 years ago. There were drink driving rules but, in those days, things were much more relaxed.

Well, we enjoyed our fish and chips, and I washed mine down with a couple of glasses of Merlot.

It had been a busy day and I was soon fast asleep. But not for long.

The conversation went something like this:

’Wake up, I’ve got to go in.’

’In where? What time is it?’

’In to the home. It’s three o’clock, the baby is on the way. Wake up!’

’Are you sure? Won’t it wait until morning?’

’GET UP!’

At the Jane, I rang the door bell and the door opened. An arm shot out and grabbed the bag. Another arm grabbed Brown Eyes and shut the door.

I woke up at eight o’clock.

The house was quiet. That’s good, I thought, she’s making a cup of tea.

The house stayed quiet. I went for a look. I was alone.

No wife, no eldest son. Where is she? She’s left me. What did I do last night? I looked outside.

The van was in the lane. Then I remembered that we had made arrangements for the eldest son to be looked after by next door neighbours.

I remembered the maternity home door being slammed with me on the outside.

Do I phone before or after breakfast? I had made the wise move.

Mother and new son were just being wheeled past the phone. I enjoyed my breakfast.

I hadn’t felt a thing. That was a pain-free child birth.