I USED to work for a newspaper for my sins. Chief sub-editor Harry Child, of blessed memory, taught me well by yelling out loud "Logan, you don't spell necessary' with two Cs'.

Double entendres were another nightmare. I crowned one editing effort, about a psychiatric patient who had axed off his better half's head, with the headline "Man kills wife with chopper".

H. Child, lost for words, merely withered me with one of his looks.

Getting revved didn't cure the problem as last month's baptism party experienced.

I was preaching full pelt on the point that Baby Fred was special and unique and lovingly designed by an incredible creator.

Fred, I declared, wasn't just the product of a mindless, accidental explosion billions of years ago, adding with a final flourish, "Nobody believes Fred just came from a Big Bang!"

The reaction on the faces of friends and family was educational. Bless em, they tried not to chortle out in sacred surroundings.

Some succeeded in hiding smirks in a cough but the majority eventually and cruelly exploded into gales of laughter.

Must work on that line', I noted as I dunked Fred at the font.

My consolation is that a wonderful God not only made Fred, but also humour and laughter, not to mention pretentious vicars and journalists who, occasionally, think they're God's gift to the communications industry.