Name on The Register

Yesterday, our son was formally registered as having been born.

The morning started as normal but as the time neared I felt a lot of excitement about formally announcing to the officials-that-be that we now have a son and what his name is. I don't know why I felt like that, it's not as if Gordon Brown is going to put a call in to congratulate us or even, for that matter, the Mayor of Watford (if one exists). But it means our son has officially arrived and he has a genuine Birth Certificate for us all to lose at some point in his life.

Registering a Birth is a slightly stuffy affair. You have to call up and book an appointment with the registrar. I did so and the earliest time I got was two days forward. It's an old building with decent parking and I competed for attention with a wedding which was going on upstairs, though quite how they were going to get the elderly gentleman with a walking stick who had trouble with the shallow steps outside up there I was not sure. I was ushered in very swiftly and the nice man sat me down (no tea offered, none expected frankly) and he turned his computer screen to me. First he checked my wife's name and date she gave birth and picked off the fact that Watford General had recorded the birth on the system. We then went through a series of questions to ascertain addresses, where the parents were born and what we did for a living and then on to formally recording the name of our son.

The curious thing for me was that no real verification was required - I brought along the maternity records and red health book issued by the hospital, I even took my wife and I's passports. But none of that was asked for - registering a birth is a very simple matter, hardly requiring official input at all, in my opinion. When he asked if I wanted any copies and I told him 10, he did raise his eyebrows.

"10?" he asked. "Why so many?"

"We are a forgetful family," I replied. It was partly true but I was planning on sending some to relatives too - God knows why.

I understood why he was concerned. The poor chap had to individually print, sign and date each copy with his old fountain pen. It took a while and in total it cost £35 (£3.50 a copy).

Scott Edward exists. It's official. And we had a quiet sip of rose sparkly stuff to celebrate with our chicken risotto for tea.