Twenty-four hours into my labour I could be found wearing a pair of XXL hi-vis trousers – the kind worn by overweight construction workers as they repave motorways – walking up and down a small, rat-scuttled stretch of the River Lea, rubbing my nipples like kindling and muttering to my partner in the steady, driving rain.
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The contractions were unrelenting – a near-total block on thought, a thick black noise filling every inch of my body
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