“Nobody could call my daughter obeast, not since her diet, anyway,” declared Mrs Em.

I searched her face for a hint of humour and found only a look of earnest pride. Perhaps I had misheard. I didn’t think so. Middle-aged Australians speak quite clearly as a rule and Mrs Em was no exception – the  inappropriate “t” sounded as clear as a bell. She had stopped eating and looked across the table at me in anticipation of my reply… but how to reply?

“Was she obese before?” I asked, mumbling slightly in order not to stress the word obese.

“Not really. She used to be a hundred and twenty kilos. I wouldn’t call that obeast – would you?” Mrs Em replied, turning the question back on me and on this occasion seemingly putting a particular emphasis on the “t”. Now her face was inscrutable.

There was no doubt in my mind that she had said “obeast” but was it a joke? Was I meant to laugh? I wanted to guffaw and marvel at her great wit, however, her deadpan expression prevented me from doing so. Did she have an incredibly dry sense of humour? Maybe she took a somewhat wicked double pleasure, firstly in making the pun, then, having pretended it had not been intentional, by testing the reaction of the recipient of her wit.

“Just a bit chubby,” I suggested, thereby avoiding the dreaded word altogether.

“Of course, she is of an age that she would like to be pregnant – I suggested she ought to find a husband first.” Mrs Em laughed.

I was glad she laughed so that I could laugh a little too.

“Her cousin has just had a baby boy. Now she really is a chubby one – and the doctors called her obeast!”

“What a nasty thing to say to a pregnant woman,” I interjected.

“That was before she was pregnant.”

“Even more nasty,” I said, and added, “How was the birth?”

“Terrible,” answered Mrs Em, “the baby was born with his umbiblical cord around his neck!”