In all the excitement of the last couple of days, I forgot to tell you an extra detail from my delivery story, not one that is central to my birth, but something that got Daddy as red faced as I get when I'm hungry or need changing. When he got home after his mad dash across London and on seeing the assembled flashing ambulances outside the flat, Daddy desperately searched for somewhere to park his car, but this being West Hampstead spaces were rarer than a snowball in summer, so he left the car in a disabled spot before he rushed up the stairs. He figured that we would all be rapidly heading to the Royal Free for the birth, so it couldn't possibly be much of a risk.
To be fair to him, when the midwife announced that we would actually be delivering yours truly at the flat he did think that maybe he should move the car to a safer spot, but then on seeing Mummy's white knuckles grip the bedsheets and on hearing her first foundation-shattering moan, he decided that the disabled denizens of West Hampstead would have to find somewhere else to park as he valued his life a little too much.
It actually turned out not to be a problem though, as the helpful people at Camden Council kindly moved Daddy's car to a pound in Kentish Town - a very secure spot where he could spend a significant part of the first day of his daughter's life getting it released. It is our only car you see and if something should happen to me in the night (not that I would ever let that happen!) then he needed it to take me to the hospital.
I learnt some new words that afternoon, especially when Daddy found out how much it would cost to release the car. I hope to use them later on in my life with Daddy, maybe in polite company or at a solemn religious occasion.
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