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My wife was writhing in pain on the examination couch in hospital and the midwife had lost her air of calm don't-worry-dear omniscience. She left the room, returned briefly, hurrying, and I heard the words "emergency section" thrown not in my direction but to a student midwife who was hanging about anxiously just outside could-you-please-tell-me-what-is-going-on distance.
The obstetrician visited briefly and I managed to extract from him that we had to await the arrival of the anaesthetist. Fine. From where? Home. Where's home? East Linton. East Linton? That's a lot of bloody miles for a tired registrar in a clapped out Morris Minor on a snowy November Saturday …