WE’RE A FAIRLY exclusive group.
Which, OK, I know sounds awful and conceited. If I were talking to anyone else I wouldn’t even say it. But
you
understand. This isn’t just any antenatal group. You can’t just turn up. You have to be
chosen
.
Petal Harmon, our teacher, conducts all the interviews herself. She isn’t affiliated to any of the hospitals or nationwide chains, but let me tell you, she gets enquiries from all over London. People travel miles to be in one of her classes. And she doesn’t even advertise. It’s all word of mouth.
The women who have had Petal Harmon classes are different. They have a strange look in their eye. They know something the rest of us don’t. The thing I’ve heard, over and over, is that Petal changed their lives.
Which sounds a
leetle
bit of an exaggeration to me, but I take the point. So naturally I applied for her classes as soon as I heard I was pregnant, like everyone else round here. I didn’t do anything special at the interview.
So
many girls have asked me if there’s some special trick but all I can say is, I was myself! We talked about my pregnancy…and my work in personnel…and Dan…
Dan’s my husband, by the way. He’s the one who dropped me off tonight – although he missed the street, and had to go round the one-way system. Which is just typical of him. He said the sign was covered in snow so he couldn’t read it, but honestly. He’s just useless. How he’s going to cope with a baby I’ll never know!
So where was I? Oh yes, the interview. So I was just very natural, very bubbly, and the next thing I knew a handwritten card had arrived, inviting me to the classes.
Obviously I was thrilled. Not that I would gloat or anything. I’ve barely mentioned it more than a few times to my neighbour Annabel. (She didn’t get in, poor love. Even though she took Petal a bunch of flowers and some of those earthy biscuits she makes.) We all feel the same way, all of us in the class. We’re not
smug
, obviously not. But the fact that we were all selected gives us…I don’t know. A little glow. We must have some special quality that others don’t.
There are six of us altogether, all due around the same time – Christmas. As I walk – well, waddle – into the room, the fire is glowing and the fairy lights are twinkling and it really looks quite Christmassy.
Geraldine’s holding forth about something or other, balancing a cup of tea on her bump. She’s still in tailored suits, believe it or not. Adjusted to fit, naturally. She had them made up on her last business trip to Singapore.
She’s fun, Geraldine, but a bit
abrasive
, if you know what I mean. When a midwife came to talk to us, Geraldine’s first question was ‘If you were negligent during my delivery, would I sue you individually or the hospital?’
‘So there I am, lying on the couch – and the midwife starts texting her friend!’ she’s saying now. ‘I mean, it’s tantamount to negligence, ignoring a patient like that. I’m complaining.’
‘Which midwife was it?’ asks Georgia alertly. Georgia has blonde highlights, is very posh, and has already put her baby down for Eton and Suzuki violin lessons.
‘It was that bloody Davies woman,’ replies Geraldine. ‘I tell you, I’m writing to the senior midwife, and I’m CC-ing the consultant and my chum in hospital management. I’m going to make her life hell. It’s the only way to get results with these people.’ She scribbles something on a leather-bound notebook and stuffs it into her Mulberry briefcase.
‘I saw my midwife today too,’ says Gina, who is sipping her own organic raspberry tea. ‘I told her my birth plan. No pain relief.’ She smiles contentedly around the room. ‘I’ve told Ralph, as well. I’ve said to him, even if I beg you. Even if I scream for an epidural!’ She leans forward earnestly, her plaits falling over her shoulders. ‘Don’t listen to me. I won’t know what I’m saying.’
Ralph is
Which, OK, I know sounds awful and conceited. If I were talking to anyone else I wouldn’t even say it. But
you
understand. This isn’t just any antenatal group. You can’t just turn up. You have to be
chosen
.
Petal Harmon, our teacher, conducts all the interviews herself. She isn’t affiliated to any of the hospitals or nationwide chains, but let me tell you, she gets enquiries from all over London. People travel miles to be in one of her classes. And she doesn’t even advertise. It’s all word of mouth.
The women who have had Petal Harmon classes are different. They have a strange look in their eye. They know something the rest of us don’t. The thing I’ve heard, over and over, is that Petal changed their lives.
Which sounds a
leetle
bit of an exaggeration to me, but I take the point. So naturally I applied for her classes as soon as I heard I was pregnant, like everyone else round here. I didn’t do anything special at the interview.
So
many girls have asked me if there’s some special trick but all I can say is, I was myself! We talked about my pregnancy…and my work in personnel…and Dan…
Dan’s my husband, by the way. He’s the one who dropped me off tonight – although he missed the street, and had to go round the one-way system. Which is just typical of him. He said the sign was covered in snow so he couldn’t read it, but honestly. He’s just useless. How he’s going to cope with a baby I’ll never know!
So where was I? Oh yes, the interview. So I was just very natural, very bubbly, and the next thing I knew a handwritten card had arrived, inviting me to the classes.
Obviously I was thrilled. Not that I would gloat or anything. I’ve barely mentioned it more than a few times to my neighbour Annabel. (She didn’t get in, poor love. Even though she took Petal a bunch of flowers and some of those earthy biscuits she makes.) We all feel the same way, all of us in the class. We’re not
smug
, obviously not. But the fact that we were all selected gives us…I don’t know. A little glow. We must have some special quality that others don’t.
There are six of us altogether, all due around the same time – Christmas. As I walk – well, waddle – into the room, the fire is glowing and the fairy lights are twinkling and it really looks quite Christmassy.
Geraldine’s holding forth about something or other, balancing a cup of tea on her bump. She’s still in tailored suits, believe it or not. Adjusted to fit, naturally. She had them made up on her last business trip to Singapore.
She’s fun, Geraldine, but a bit
abrasive
, if you know what I mean. When a midwife came to talk to us, Geraldine’s first question was ‘If you were negligent during my delivery, would I sue you individually or the hospital?’
‘So there I am, lying on the couch – and the midwife starts texting her friend!’ she’s saying now. ‘I mean, it’s tantamount to negligence, ignoring a patient like that. I’m complaining.’
‘Which midwife was it?’ asks Georgia alertly. Georgia has blonde highlights, is very posh, and has already put her baby down for Eton and Suzuki violin lessons.
‘It was that bloody Davies woman,’ replies Geraldine. ‘I tell you, I’m writing to the senior midwife, and I’m CC-ing the consultant and my chum in hospital management. I’m going to make her life hell. It’s the only way to get results with these people.’ She scribbles something on a leather-bound notebook and stuffs it into her Mulberry briefcase.
‘I saw my midwife today too,’ says Gina, who is sipping her own organic raspberry tea. ‘I told her my birth plan. No pain relief.’ She smiles contentedly around the room. ‘I’ve told Ralph, as well. I’ve said to him, even if I beg you. Even if I scream for an epidural!’ She leans forward earnestly, her plaits falling over her shoulders. ‘Don’t listen to me. I won’t know what I’m saying.’
Ralph is
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