Timing

Life and humor both involve timing. Comedians always say humor requires good timing. But in real life, I think humor requires bad timing ... the more atrocious, the better.

When my stepson (now all grown up) was six years old and we were living in the London suburbs, he picked the worst possible time to ask me about sex and babies.

We were riding British Rail from Surrey into Victoria Station during morning rush hour. As usual, our train spent about 15 minutes stopped dead on the tracks, stuck in traffic at Selhurst Junction. Since the train wasn’t moving and the Brits NEVER speak to each other on a commuter train (I think it might be against the law), you could have easily heard a pin drop.

That’s when my stepson suddenly blurted out in his recently acquired English accent, “Oi, whah do babies come from?”

Three pinstriped-wearing English gentlemen (two of them in bowler hats) who were in seats facing us slowly dropped the newspapers they had been hiding behind to see how I was going to respond to this awkwardly timed query.

Gobsmacked (I used to sometimes get gobsmacked when I lived in London), I looked at my stepson who was patiently awaiting my answer, then looked at the three gentlemen who, in a very un-British fashion, were NOT minding their own business.

“I have no idea!” I exclaimed and, pointing at the three pinstriped Limeys across from me, said, “but THEY know! Ask THEM!”

The three newspaper screens immediately rose in unison back into their defensive positions. Their choreography was breathtaking. In the silence of Selhurst Junction you could hear the newspaper shields lock into place where they remained until the train pulled into Victoria Station.

I guess my stepson figured out where babies come from because he has two now.

Maybe the Limeys told him.