The waiting game...

After several weeks of sheer terror that the baby would put in an early appearance and that Giles wouldn't make it back from Istanbul in time for the labour, he finally arrived home for a mixture of paternity, personal and unpaid leave, topped with a half term holiday, that totalled three weeks. I didn't particularly mind which day of that weekend Little Miss decided to put in an appearance - Friday 13th had a certain melodramatic appeal; Valentine's Day had obvious connotations of love, cuddles and a lifetime of being guaranteed to receive cards and Sunday 15th seemed entirely feasible, as she had been such a considerate child throughout my pregnancy - never disturbing my sleep, not growing so big that I looked like an elephant in calf, not compelling me to eat coal or soil or soap, and so on.

However, in spite of a combination of old wives' tales and 'guaranteed' labour-inducing strategies, she decided that she was perfectly happy where she was, thank you. Checks at the hospital throughout the following week revealed a very content baby who was very comfortable and showed no imminent signs of movement. We tried everything - raspberry leaf tea dosage rose to four cups a day, consumption of curry increased, romantic interludes took on a new level of importance and we even tried going to London for the day, booking tickets for the theatre and an exhibition, in the hope of Sod's Law coming into force.

But to no avail.

By Friday, I was convinced that absolutely everything was about to go well and truly tits up. Family were starting to murmur about postponing the wedding - but until when? We had less than one week's leeway - and that was assuming that the registry office would be able to fit us in. It was looking doubtful that me and the baby would be able to return to Turkey with Giles on 7th March, and more likely that we would have to travel back alone a week or so later. Together with my putting myself under pressure as everyone looked at me hopefully for early signs or twinges, the fact that Giles had already spent a week of his leave witnessing false starts and the onset of Braxton Hicks contractions (at last), the disappointment of Little Miss not being as eager to meet us as we were to meet her and the fear of a protracted and painful induction the following Wednesday, I was not a person you'd want to be stuck in a lift with.

Saturday brought another hospital outpatient appointment to check my erratic blood pressure. The postnatal ward was full to bursting and the poor day unit midwife, Linda, had been displaced to a small, private room, from which she had to scoot off to find a sphyg, sonicaid and all manner of other bits and pieces. What a star she was! She offered to perform a membrane sweep (look away now if repulsed or terrified by biological details) - the insertion of her finger through my cervix to try to loosen the amniotic sac and to induce contractions without any assistance from drugs. She was extremely gentle and reassuring and the procedure wasn't painful at all. On hearing that my community midwife was on holiday the following week, she advised me to return to the hospital on Monday for a second sweep if nothing had happened by then.

A more hopeful, maybe slightly delirious, mood descended as Giles and I stocked up in Sainsbury's for the next two weeks in our rented holiday cottage. A chicken Madras and a bottle of wine slipped into our trolley - if we had to wait, it might as well be enjoyable...