Calming art in Lewisham Hospital (may be fire damaged).
- Giving birth hurts more, a lot more, than getting kicked in the nuts. There, I said it. On behalf of men everywhere, I withdraw this comparison. A more adequate parallel would be having your goolies tied to the back of a Vauxhall Nova whilst an inner city youth does U-turns round a car park every ten minutes until they drop off.
- Nature performs a Blake-7 style memory wipe on mums that allows them to forget the worst parts of child birth and this is how it tricks them into wanting another one. Nature has not so far seen fit to extend this service to dads and as such, every second of that grisly, magical, horrific, magical experience is etched on your subconscious from now until the day you die.
- The hospital really would prefer if you weren’t there. Everything would just run a lot smoother without the inconvenience of patients. Waters have broken and you want to go in? Unless you can already tell what colour your baby’s eyes are, tough shit – you’re getting sent home. Come back when you’re baby-width dilated.
- The hospital really doesn’t want you, specifically, to be there. They’re short of beds; the last thing they want is your non-ill body cluttering up the place. Hey you want to stay the night? Why don’t you sleep standing up just here next to this cabinet.
- Placentas. What the hell is that all about? Once the baby’s born, that’s not it! There’s all this other stuff that still has to come out. Whilst presumably important in some way, it is certainly treated with less care and attention, This I discovered bending down to retrieve my shoes after the birth finding a placenta (presumably ours) just gently airing in a bowl next to some plastic flowers two inches from my nose. Hopefully someone moved it before the next people went in.