By now The Chef had had prostaglandin and we were told to not leave the grounds, safe in the knowledge that — as delicately phrased by the consultant — we wouldn't see another sunrise.

I went for takeaway because The Chef wasn't eating hospital food. Birth would be ordeal enough. We ate with disposable chopsticks in the hospital canteen.

Back at our bay The Chef explained to the nurse that she's feeling discomfort, but probably not contractions.

Buzz bounced to the bed to explain that they were contractions and he'd be happy to break her water.

And the longest night got going.