1984

I can't say I hadn't been warned. 1984 had nothing at all to recommend it in George Orwell's novel of that title and I remember wondering, as the year approached, if it would indeed be significant in any way.

It looked as though it might be. Married in 1980, by May 1984 I was pregnant for the first time, and delighted to be so.

In early September we went on holiday with some friends to a couple of log cabins at a camp site in Wensleydale. Lovely weather, beautiful scenery, congenial company.

One early morning I stood by myself outside the cabin and looked across the valley at the hills and the heavy late-summer trees. I couldn't be happier, I thought. Then the whole view slowly filled up with blackness. I didn't know what to make of it: I blinked, it cleared, the view of the Dales reappeared.

Four weeks later I came back from a day's teaching and lay down on the sofa for a little sleep. It had been a quiet day with the afternoon spent in a staff meeting, but nevertheless the pregnancy was making me more tired than usual.

I woke up in a flood. Water everywhere, the sofa wet, me wet. I knew immediately what had happened - my waters had broken, and I was only six months pregnant.

The ambulance crew were being jolly and trying to keep me cheerful -

"Don't worry, love, your baby's on its way."

I tried to explain that I was only six months pregnant but they were having none of it.

"Plenty of women get their dates wrong. Let's see what they say at the hospital."

At the hospital they asked me two questions which were, with hindsight, fully indicative of what I might expect:

"Are you sure you haven't just wet yourself?"

and

"So, I expect you've been doing some painting and decorating to cause this, have you?"

I could see the blackness stretching ahead, and I was right.

That's enough of 1984 for now. I'll come back to it, but not tomorrow - I wouldn't want to spend too long there at once. So back to this gloriously sunny afternoon in May 2006.