Emma Angela

This time last year, I was with Rob at St George's Hospital, waiting for him to have a liver ultrasound.
I was feeling some uncomfortable twinging round my huge belly.
We went home after that, and the twinging got worse. I still managed to have a sandwich for lunch, though.
We watched TV; we had one in those (happy, happy) days. During Countdown, I realised I wasn't concentrating on neither the numbers nor the letters.
At 7.30pm we went back to St George's, under a different pretext. I had gas and air. It sent me straight to Lala land.
At 11.06pm, a wrinkly, purple, perfect little baby came into the world. "Bloody Norah" said Rob, "It's a girl."
Exhausted and very relieved, I stared at the raven-haired little bundle in my arms. "Hello, mini Dad", I said.

One year later and her hair is golden, like her mother's. (I won't pretend that's not extremely gratifying.) She can crawl and stand up. She eats shoes and tissues and is obsessed with the telephone. She waves. She is devoted to monkey, her first love. She hates having her face wiped. She can go "woof! woof!", but not "hello"(I'm not sure how we got into this situation.) And I love her so much I could eat her up, and wouldn't change a single little thing.