In the lead-up to Christmas my work-colleagues have a long lunch-break together, and a bit of a drink, and generally get talkative. I was therefore sitting in the pub, waiting for my lunch and drinking coffee (I never drink at lunch and then go back to work – I’m enough of a clutz without being tipsy into the bargain, and after all, my job does involve scalpels (heh heh heh)) surrounded by people whose highest common factor topic of conversation is medical dramas on the television. So that is what we were earnestly discussing.
One plot-line had apparantly involved a birthing-pool, so I was chattering about my sister’s very jolly experience lolling about in one eating sweeties when she was in labour. Instantly my boss practically lunged across the table, tapped my (alcohol-free) coffee mug and said archly ‘Birthing-pools? Is there something you want to tell us, May?’
‘No,’ said I, smiling, ‘We were talking about TV writer’s perceptions of labour.’
‘Oh,’ said the boss, looking slightly crestfallen. And the conversation moved on.
Thank you. I feel better now.
And I award myself one small gold star for not melting in a downward direction at the time.