Standing in the bookshop, pondering the large number of pregnancy books displayed on the shelves before me, I felt overwhelmed and dizzy. My cheeks burned and my hands trembled. The elderly woman standing a few feet away from me noticed my panicked state. She cocked her head slightly and, without looking me in the eye, pushed a stool towards me. I sat down, put my head between my knees, and wept. She knelt on the floor beside me, whispering “Don’t buy into those books, my darling. Read only fiction, for only there will you find the answers which you seek.”
Writing one hundred words (EXACTLY one hundred) is strangely addictive. I do however promise that this will be the last in the pregnancy series. Enough already Eleanor. Enough.