A team of nurses was trying to ascertain whether my wife was pregnant. It didn’t seem very likely. She’ll be 57 in a couple of months, went through the menopause over a decade ago and has been on HRT for several years. And she hasn’t had IVF. Insofar as one can be certain about such matters, I believe I have been her only sexual partner for two decades – and I’ve had a vasectomy. Furthermore, were she to be pregnant and go on to give birth she would leap straight into the global top 100 oldest mothers of all time list. So, no, it didn’t seem likely.
A team of three assembled to put screens around her so that she could urinate on her trolley. I could see through the screens from outside
The chain of events that led us to this point had begun in a pub carpark, outside The Anchor, a riverside pub in Barcombe Mill, Sussex, at around 5.30
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