A nice quiet existence in the country, we had thought. We soon discovered that ‘nightlife’ doesn’t mean the same in rural Lincolnshire as it does in W12.
At some point early in those first weeks, I crawled into bed beside No3, more than ready for as much sleep as I could steal before the next interminable round of feeding, winding and changing began. Eeyore by this time was back in the Big Smoke again – apparently living a sad and lonely life on his own, working to keep the family fed and housed, despite almost crippling home-and-family-sickness. Hmmmm. More of that anon. Anyway: 4am and all hell breaks loose. Mooing and bellowing and the sound of big cattle moving fast. I leaned out of the window to see what I could see and realised of course that in the absence of street lights this was precisely nothing. Despite the heat, I shut the windows and tried to go back to sleep. The stampede noises receded and finally stopped, but the bellowing went on and on and I got more and more stressed waiting for the baby and his sister to wake and for the day, therefore, to begin at this utterly unholy hour, and eventually I snapped. Lumbering from my bed I crossed to the window, threw it open and screamed from it (and I’m not proud of this) ‘Shut the FUCK up!!’
Silence. Then one brief, plaintive moo, and then silence. Relieved, chuffed that for once had triumphed over nature, I went back to bed.