Hmmm.

Eldest daughter went into labour. Much frantic phone calls (she only lives 3 mins away) from 0624, neighbours being knocked out of bed for a lift to the hospital. All very messy and "Dean, old chap, you don't need a coffee before you go with her, and the no, the dog doesn't need a walk first...."

Poor chap looked like a frightened rabbit, I noted with grim amusement. Lord only knows what I must have looked like when The Bear handed me the phone, after Daughter described her symptoms.

"Here, talk to y'dad, he's got more experience in this stuff" Which is true, oddly enough. Partly because ours have all been by planned caesarian, and partly because, for some odd reason, I was often invited "to be there" by popular request in a previous life - which was not in the least bit medical.

Anyways, young Miss Charlie seems well on her way, a bit early at 34 weeks, and Daughter is at the time of writing 8cm dilated, and they (and Dean) are in good hands.

Bear has somehow managed to run around like a headless chicken in a straight line hotfoot to be at the bedside (and Dean), on the 45 minute bus ride to the hospital.

She's going to have to get a move on, I suspect :)

So it's just Tot's, me, and Sigma The Dog. Peace descends once again on Wheelie Manor.

Well it will, when I've found where she's hidden my rather large bottle of 25 year old Glenfiddich Single Malt Grandad's Privilidge.