It had been a long and exhausting labour, slowed even more by the effects of the epidural. It was late, and she had drifted into a light sleep. Without anything more to do than wait, I too was dozing in an easy chair. The anaesthesia had been followed by a syntocin drip, which in turn had necessitated a foetal heart monitor - a machine that had fascinated her partner for hours, before he decided he needed to go off to get something to eat. The rhythm of the monitor was steady and consistent, lulling us both into the feeling that - despite the slow pace of events - the baby must be fine.
Suddenly, in place of the familiar beep, a voice came through the monitor's speakers: "Taxi for North End Road" It was no longer registering the baby's heartbeat, but was instead picking up the transmissions of a local minicab firm! As I leapt up to investigate, she too woke with a start. "It's a boy!" she cried out, still half asleep.
