For some time now, Lisa has been covertly seeing her ex, Nick. Randomly, she has bumped into him and his wife, Justine, in a department store. They are making conversation.
Justine, keeping her arm still cradled lovingly across her midriff, smiles - glows, possibly - at Lisa.
"You're pregnant?" Lisa replies. I wasn't there, so I can't tell you her exact intonation, but I bet it was an interesting mixture of colours. She glances across at Nick. Nick (and I don't know for the life of me how he managed this) does not burst into flesh-searing flames. Lisa turns her full attention back to Justine. "How long have you known?" she asks.
Justine's reply naturally hurls Lisa into arithmetic. She returns (it'll surprise none of us to learn) with the result that Nick must surely have called her - "for no reason... just to see how you're doing" - very, very close to this time. Perhaps as close as within 10 minutes of Justine emerging from the bathroom holding a revealingly-striped test stick.
"That's wonderful. Congratulations," Lisa says - straight to Nick's head, as if the word, sent directly at him, might somehow fracture his skull.
"Thanks," Justine says. "We're really, really happy."
Now, though this is a deeply personal situation for Lisa, it also throws up three universal issues. The first hardly needs pointing out: I am always right and Lisa, plus the world generally, should do as I suggest. The other two concern pregnancy-related infidelity, and "talking things through". Those, next week.
