My grandson told me I couldn't come into his pretend shop because I hadn't brought any money. I've been handed babies in every sort of room imaginable and this wee merchant nearly reduced me to tears over a plastic till. Not sad tears. He had such a serious face and kept explaining the rules as though I was a bit slow. I went to the kitchen for some buttons, which he refused to accept. Fair enough, standards. His grandad got served immediately with an imaginary card. I was outraged, obviously, and absolutely delighted. Stayed on the floor playing until my daughter arrived and asked which of us was running the place.

We're trying to agree how many women each of us takes on next year and I keep doing the sum as though every birth will happen neatly on a different day. After twenty-seven years you'd think I'd stop that nonsense. There's the number that fits the diary and the number that still lets you think straight when three families need you at once. I can see that perfectly well for the other midwives. When it's my list I start remembering the women I've already promised, or someone's sister who specifically asked for me. Haven't sent my number through yet. The garden calendar is considerably easier; carrots don't ring with a persuasive story.

Had an actual afternoon in the garden, no crouching over the phone between weeds, and got thoroughly filthy. The ground was damp enough that the roots came out with a proper pull instead of breaking off. Lovely on the hands after a week of washing them every five minutes. I knelt longer than I meant to and needed the edge of the raised bed to get up, knees making their usual commentary. Then a hot flush arrived while I was already sweating. Bloody efficient timing. Took the fleece off and sat on the step with bare feet in the grass. My husband brought tea and wisely didn't ask how many weeds were left.