Watermelon [antikvár]

Prologue February the fifteenth is a very special day for me. It is the day I gave birth to my first child. It is also the day my husband left me. As he was present at the birth I can only assume the two events weren't entirely unrelated. I knew I should have followed my instincts. I subscribed to the classical, or you might say, the traditional role fathers play in the birth of their children. Which goes as follows. Lock them in a corridor outside the delivery room. Allow them admittance at no time. Give them forty cigarettes and a lighter. Instruct them to pace to the end of the corridor. When they reach this happy position, instruct them to turn around and return to whence they came. Repeat as necessary. Conversation should be curtailed. They are allowed to exchange a few words with any other prospective father pacing alongside them. 'My first,' (wry smile). 'Congrats - my third,' (rueful smile). "Well done,' (forced smile - is he trying to imply that he's more virile than me). Feelings do tend to run high around this time. Or they are allowed to fling themselves on any doctor who emerges exhausted from the delivery room, covered in blood up to his elbows, and gasp 'Any news doctor???' To which the doctor might reply 'Oh God no man! - sure she's only three centimetres dilated.' And your man will nod knowingly, while til i8