A Much Malarkey Waiting Game

Last night, Chris and Leane came around for a spot of birthday dinner. Chris's birthday, to be precise, which wasn't yesterday but is today. We had chicken pie and /or steak pie, roast potatoes, parsnips and artichokes, and broccoli, followed by trifle and /or birthday cake. I said to Chris, 'We'll have to stop the candles this year; I think 24 is the optimum for an eight inch cake.'

And then I said, 'And listen here, over-due Grand-daughter. Don't you think it's about time you made an appearance and faced the world like a...a...girl?'

Did she hear me? Did she take heed of her Grandmother's advice? Hmmm....

Anyway, we had a nice evening, and sent Chris and Leane home with the advice that the best way to get the baby on her way would be a combination of drinking raspberry leaf tea and bouncing up and down on a space hopper over some speed humps.

At 3.30 this morning, Leane went into labour. Andy said, 'I reckon it was the trifle that did it.'

At 5.45 I was up and about, drinking tea and reading a bloomin' awful book called 'A Year in Christine's Garden' about the gardener Christine Walken. Fantastic gardener she might be; writer she ain't. Still, I whiled away an hour or so looking for double entrendres and being aghast at the over-use of commas and exclamation marks. (!!)

At 8.30 I was out in the front garden weeding the borders and digging in compost and trying to decide whether the little willow tree I planted last year was dead or not. My money's on deceased; Andy reckons I should give it a chance to be alive. Either way, I shan't take it out - it can be used as scaffolding for a clematis.

At 11.30 Andy and I went into town for a mooch and some lunch. I bought a 'Baby Record Book.' V. cute.

At 3.30 we were home. I fell asleep on the sofa; waiting for one's first grandchild to arrive is exhausting business.

And here we are at 5 p.m on Mothering Sunday aka Chris's 24th birthday and still no news of baby. I've made some shortbread. And played with the chickens, who are frankly appalled at the time it takes for a human to produce a baby.

Andy is in the living room do some Wii exercise. This is a shock reaction following a visit to the doctor on Thursday to get his ear syringed. The doctor seemed more concerned with Andy's high blood pressure, mentioning things like 'strokes' and 'heart attacks' and 'we need to do something about this,' which Andy and I took to meaning 'lose some weight or else.' Thinking about it, me making shortbread isn't going to help, is it?

I am supposed to be planning lessons for tomorrow, but I can't settle to it. I am baby focused. Will all go well? It is so far. Will baby be healthy and strong? Nothing to suggest during the pregnancy that she won't be anything other. Will she be born today, on her Dad's birthday? Who can tell?

And how am I going to keep 28 Year 11's occupied all day tomorrow during an English GCSE revision day if I don't get on and prepare something? To be honest, that problem is the least important one in the world right now.