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Morris might not be much of a midwife... but he finds his passport and accepts his mission to "smash open the padlock of falsehood" and take his message of Salopian goodwill to an unsuspecting world.

I'm waiting in the waiting room at Whitchurch Hospital.

It's very nice, clean, white with tasteful art prints dotted around, a fish tank and three years' worth of OK! and Hello! Magazines.

There's also that unmistakable aura of death and hopelessness that I have come to associate with Devon, and yet here I am, still in Shropshire. It doesn't seem right.

Sophia is still in labour. I offered a number of times to assist with the delivery. I was ready to encourage her and suggest when (and when not) to push, and I'd prepared a calming little poem about epidurals to recite.

Then Sophia grabbed my arm with the sort of grip you can only refuse with the aid of a crowbar and a blowtorch and explained to me all about privacy, families and restraining orders.

I decided they would be better off without me and left them alone.

There's a little TV in the corner of the waiting room - it's been showing the Olympics now for what seems like several days, but can't in fact be much more than 3 or 4 hours.

There's a lot of nonsense about Athens being the "birthplace of the Olympics".

As every well-informed Salopian knows, the Olympics originated in Much Wenlock, when William Penny Brookes had a dream about people of all nationalities competing athletically against each other for gingerbread medallions.

Baron Pierre de Coubertin came round for tea and cake at Bill's house one day, pinched his idea, swapped the gingerbread for Bronze, Silver and Gold, moved it from the Much Wenlock playing fields to Athens and the rest is history.

It's the same old story. All good things come from Shropshire, but people don't want to believe that a little English county could be responsible for so much... They'd rather believe the forked tongue of the media serpent.

They'd rather believe that Alexander Fleming discovered Penicillin in 1928, when actually George Rumsfold, an unemployed baker from Wellington first discovered it in 1925 while trying out new gingerbread preserving methods.

They'd rather think that Samuel Colt invented the revolver in 1846, getting his idea from watching the wheel of a sailing ship... when in fact as early as 1820 they were using six shooters in Ludlow to keep marauders from Devon away from the livestock.

Samuel Colt visited Ludlow as a teenager on a camping holiday with his parents and bought a model of a revolver from a gift shop next to Ludlow castle, took it to America and put his name to it.

Reginald Granger in action

I've met people that still genuinely imagine that Neil Armstrong was the first man on the moon in 1969, when everyone in Moreton Say knows it was really Reginald "Lone" Granger that first set foot there at 10:30am on the 15th of June 1973.

Neil's whole "one small step" fiasco was filmed in a disused Laundromat in Washington DC. If you look carefully at some of the footage you can see a tumble dryer poking out from behind a moon rock.

People will believe anything if it's told to them often enough. Sometimes I wonder what the world would do without me to smash open the padlock of falsehood that chains shut the rusty gates of propaganda, so they can once again frolic in the garden of hidden truth.

The nurse just came through. Sophie has had the baby.

Inside the maternity ward, they have cheered up the place with stencils of Disney characters, children's television programmes and a whole wall with nothing but little pictures of people sewing, spinning wheels, thread, and sewing machines.

I asked about the mural and one of the nurses explained it was all a mix up with a local artist. They had asked for a wall mural with a "Fimbles" theme.

I'm sitting in front of a lovely mural of a giant six fingered hand with an eye in the palm and a different coloured thimble on each finger as I type this on my trusty palmtop and reflect on the serious nature of life, death and birth.

Outside the rain is raining, as it often does. It's early in the morning and I have just had the most tremendous experience of my entire life.

I'm aware that I keep saying that... that each time I experience something wonderful it pips the last "most tremendous" moment and becomes the all-new most tremendous moment.

Well, it does, and it has and it is.

I've just met a brand new Salopian.

Toby and Sophia's new little girl - she looks just like a very, very, very young Felicity Kendal.

After Sophia, Toby, the midwife, the other midwife, a couple of nurses, a doctor and a cleaner, I was the ninth person that the little girl saw.

She looked like a freshly baked little person, soft and warm from the womb.

I felt very protective of her and very emotional, since Toby would never have met Sophia if it hadn't been for me.

This little girl is the nearest I've ever come to a child of my own and if it wasn't for my responsibilities enlightening the rest of humanity, I'd stick around and buy her a pony and a junior bingo set.

The more I looked down at the innocent, inquisitive, slightly puffy, tiny, new eyes, the more I was sure that I need to set off again - so that every baby gets the same chance that this lucky little lady has... The chance to taste the sweet air of Shropshire.

She gets it by accident of birth. But right now there are children being born in far off countries (there are even poor little souls being born in Devon), that need me out there, letting people know about Shropshire, the Shropshire way of life, and the betterment that awaits them over the rainbow in Moreton Say.

Sophia comes home later today, so Toby and I are getting the house ready for her homecoming.

I suggested a live brass band, a bouncy castle, fireworks and a small but tasteful parade of local people, maybe one or two floats to celebrate.

Toby prefers a lower key approach so we have opted for a bunch of flowers, a card and a bit of a tidy up instead.

Toby keeps explaining to me how important it is for Sophia to get plenty of rest and how she needs to be left alone for a while, so I've made sure no-one can come and disturb her by setting up my camp bed near the door.

I've already had to explain to Trent, my Mother, Aunt Felicity and a man selling dusters that Sophia will be home soon and needs some space with just her, the baby and Toby.

Some people can be so inconsiderate.

Sophia came home yesterday evening and got quite emotional when she saw Toby. Then she got even more emotional when she saw me.

I always imagined that when I first met Sophia it would be more magical, much calmer than it's turned out.

I had a phone call from Meat in Australia. Meat has regained his grasp of the English language and is now doing a surprisingly successful job running 'Morris Telford's Clip, Paper and Staplers' in Perth, Australia.

He was ringing to tell me that the company is doing incredibly well. They went multi-national last month and still send out a map showing where Moreton Say is with every order.

Sometimes I feel like some modern day King Midas. Everything I touch turns to gold.

Like a transcendental version of Percy Thrower, everything I'm involved in blossoms and sprouts and grows into something wonderful.

As local prophet Bruce Foresight said to me this morning, my hands are fertile, my breath is life, my smile a toothy arc of brilliance spreading good cheer and happiness, and wherever my feet take me, there people will rejoice and sing.

I like Bruce.

The great thing is, Meat tells me, that 'Morris Telford's Clip, Paper and Staplers' has been buying up smaller companies as they expand their business, and it turns out that my old company, the one that sacked me and Toby last week, is actually owned by MTCP&S.

So effectively, I sacked myself last week without knowing it.

As chairman, I've emailed a minute to Meat outlining a few necessary changes to operations at our Shropshire branch.

I've given Toby his job back, with a raise and a promotion, he does have a family to support after all. I've also given out a hefty cash bonus to Theresa who used to buy me Jammie Dodgers.

With the same email I've also relocated Mr Magson so he gets to do my old job ordering the paperclips. That'll be a nice surprise for him when he gets back from the sub-continent.

I asked Mother if she was prepared to give me my passport now.

She said no.

Inspired by Toby cleaning up for Sophia, I had a bit of a tidy up at home, and went straight to the place where my Mother had hidden my passport.

It was down the back of the settee (which is, of course, the first place you should always look when you lose something, but is often the last).

I also found a pair of slightly worn, latex pointed ears; a copy of 'The Catcher In The Rye'; a receipt from the chemists dated 1997 showing that Mother had bought some soap and some growth hormones; the remote control for a Betamax video recorder; a local newspaper clipping with the headline "Shropshire man first on Moon!"... and some paperclips.

I pocketed the paperclips - you never know when you might need them.

Nothing else is stopping me from setting off again to change the world, so I packed my things, and went to say my goodbyes.

Trent and the other Alaskans weren't at their barn. A note said they've gone to a car boot sale in Telford to see if they could sell some American military secrets.

Aunt Felicity is at the dentists having her sockets moistened.

Mother went out this morning to see a local sculptor/builder about getting a statue of me commissioned. She isn't back yet.

The sculptor's name is Kenn and he specialises in cement life-size images. Apparently he did a very good Henry Walford Davies for the Church Fete last year.

She may not want me to go, but I like to think that she must be proud of what I've achieved if she's getting a statue done in my honour.

So there's no-one to give me a send off, no ticker tape parade of adulation, no cheering crowd chanting my name, no placards or banners or specially printed "Good Luck Morris" T-shirts, not even a couple of tearful local beauties clinging to my legs.

It's probably for the best this way, if I slip out quietly without any upset.

The light is on at Toby's next door; I'm going to see if he's in.

It's funny, but as she opened the door to me, I realised that it was the first time I'd ever been alone with Sophia.

Even though she answered the door tired and irritable, having just fallen asleep for the first time in 50 hours, I couldn't help but smile when I saw it was her.

I didn't have to say anything. It was just nice to see her again, see she was all right before I left. So I just mumbled an apology and told her to let Toby know I had to go liberate some more people from the shackles of ignorance.

To her credit, she was really nice to me. She didn't bring up the fact I'd disturbed her rest, or mention my over-enthusiastic offers of help during her recent childbirth, or that I'd just got Toby sacked.

She just thanked me for all I'd done and she smiled and she kissed me on my left cheek just on the cheekbone, just under my eye.

I want to say it was like a butterfly, newly emerged from its chrysalis, had chosen my cheek as the first thing its delicate, perfect legs ever landed on... or that it was like brushing against a goddess in a crowded room and feeling for that brief moment of contact what it must be like to be perfect.

I want to say that, but to be honest it was just a kiss... Just her lips on my cheek... Just exactly, precisely the sort of goodbye I'd wanted.

It occurred to me I should have told Sophia about Toby getting his job back, but I'd rather she thought Toby did it off his own back anyway. He's her partner; her baby's father and I want them so much to be happy together.

I bumped into Toby just now, this morning, as I waited for the bus. He wound the window down and we talked.

He let me look in at the baby in her car seat. I told him how I'd bumped into Sophia and how, although we had kissed, it was purely platonic and he had nothing to worry about.

He laughed and told me they'd named the little girl - they've called her Felicity, after my Father.

Now I'm sitting at the coach station, waiting to once more travel south down the A41 to unknown climates, trying to avoid eye contact with the skinhead sitting opposite me.

There's something inherently intimidating about a skinhead, stripped to the waist, face painted like a Union Jack, with a Swastika tattooed on their stomach... But I know I shouldn't judge by appearances; I might like her if I got to know her.

It's exactly the sort of challenge I regularly face in my daily struggle to bring the new dawn of the age of Shropshire to a world darkened by petty rivalries and selfish misunderstanding.

Should I cast aside my preconceptions and embrace humanity one by one, thinking the best of everyone until they prove otherwise; or should I take the discretionary route and choose my battles carefully?

Should I hide in the rock face until the birds of potential violence swoop by me; or should I wave my arms and shout loudly for the first passing stranger, in the hope they will be quite nice?

Should I be a wallflower in the dance of life to the tunes of circumstance I am unfamiliar with; or should I grab a random partner and dance the dance of the determined traveller until I drop?

On this occasion I'm going to securely hide my palmtop, pretend to be asleep and hope the skinhead isn't getting on the same coach as me.