Four months of sweet, tumultuous, time-blurred mundane perfection. If I was more prone to be less cerebral, I’d spend my days with a blissful grin plastered on my face, expressing my joy and contentedness out loud. However, since such acts would likely cause me to disown myself – not mention bewilder the people around me, I will stick to measured bursts of syrup en ecrire. So, time has passed, the idea of a complete person inhabiting my innards becomes more and more impossible to contemplate, and is replaced by a sense of wonderment that a shiny little love-nut has managed to implant in the universe, like an overnight cherry-tree-blossoming or a sudden thunder storm. How, I have to ask, does one sit down, ever, and write what is termed a ‘birth story’? How to ever make a sheaf of words into something explanatory, descriptive, memorable – when the very thing it puports to discuss is still being lived, breathed, absorbed and fragmented. With every bright and succulent day.

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