And a rude awakening it was.
Imagine my deep joy when I woke at 5am the very next morning, with a rather familiar pain at the base of my belly. Wedged upright and on one side in a dirty bedroom full of packing boxes, I refused to acknowledge the obvious and wallowed onto the other side in an attempt to go back to sleep. Dozing and ignoring took up the next hour, by which stage even I had to admit there was something happening and I rang the midwife. I did as I was told and waited another hour, and then rang to say I felt we should be doing something by now please, and so we discussed the options. Should I wait for an ambulance? No2 had been four hours from start to finish (and 10lbs thank you very much) and as we were already two hours into things and at least forty minutes from the hospital, that might be cutting it a bit fine. Should I start driving myself and hope for the best? We’d done a dummy run within days of arriving in the area and I was sort of confident-ish that I could navigate the hideous ringroad alone while panting – but then we were still three weeks off a due date: perhaps everything would come to a shuddering halt as soon as I got in the car?
No such luck. We agreed that I should at least start off, and I woke the Nubile Nymph to tell her I was leaving. I left No2 sleeping, tucked a startled No1 into bed with Jessica Rabbit and left them to it, secure in the knowledge that between us she and I were probably giving him a breast fetish that would last a lifetime.