sure the bag is packed and generally that everything runs smoothly.
  I'd heard stories of twenty-minute labours and births in the backs of cars, and was determined that it would never happen to us. Yet we were registered at a hospital near home over an hour away, through the sinuous Combe de Lourmarin, one of the last places you would want to negotiate with a wife in heavy labour: nothing but sheer cliffs and goat farms for miles.
  'But it's not due for another month,' I protested, trying to hide the panic creeping into my belly.
  'I know.'
  'And we haven't got anything ready.'
  'I know.' Tanya winced in pain.
  'I'll get the car.'
  I started at a fast walk, which somehow quickly became a jog and finally a run. I hadn't even asked how close together the contractions were.
  'Attention!' , 'Watch where you're going', 'What's the rush?' people called as I shoved through the crowds, fighting the flow of arrivals.
  The engine started first time and I crawled down the hill in the slow-moving traffic. I could see Tanya waiting at the roadside, hands on knees, panting. Despite the cold she'd taken off her coat, which she'd handed to one of the many onlookers. Nothing attracts a crowd like a sick person in France. A grazed arm is enough to have yourself escorted to the nearest bar for a restorative brandy. Blame is apportioned, remedies shared, the doctor called out to stem the bleeding.
  Perhaps twenty people had gathered around to offer their advice to Tanya. No doubt the majority of them were berating her imbecile of a husband. How had he allowed this to happen? Where was he now?
  Please let one of them be a midwife, I prayed, burying my head in my arms as I waited for the traffic to move. Shoppers zigzagged between the cars, and the municipal policemen tried to bring order to the chaos. What would our baby wear when it was born? The hospital had stipulated about thirty essential items â but we had nothing with us. Would it be a boy or a girl? I really didn't care, as long as we got to the hospital. The pregnancy bible, What to Expect When You're Expecting , sat on the dashboard in front of me. The author certainly hadn't told us to expect this.
  'Let's go.' Tanya slammed the door and a gap briefly opened in the traffic. A couple of bends later and the soft folds of the Luberon hills came into view. The panic was gradually replaced by an unexpected sense of calm. Finally it was going to happen, after months of waiting â a Christmas present to beat all Christmas presents. I'd heard good things about Pertuis hospital, which was much closer than Apt. We'd make for there.
  'OK?'
  Tanya nodded weakly. There was silence for a minute or so.
  'There's just one thing,' she said tentatively. 'I left the truffle on the table.'
Chapter 2
P ertuis hospital smelt of strong detergent and overcooked food. The walls of the maternity ward were painted a crumbling pink and lined with arty black-and-white photos of semi-naked women with their babies. Strangely some of the mothers had chosen to wear their finest lingerie, giving the images an overtone of sexuality.
  'Might as well look your best,' I joked to Tanya, but she didn't reply. Instead, she scanned the empty corridor for signs of a midwife. According to the local paper the service on offer was one of the best in France. People travelled up to two hours to have their baby in Pertuis, lured by its holistic approach â acupuncture, massages, aqua births, aromatherapy and, most importantly for Tanya, epidurals. Whatever the mother-to-be wanted, was provided.
  Part of the reason for the hospital's notoriety was the French state's continual attempts to shut it down. The government wanted to concentrate resources on large birthing centres, cramming them with machinery and processing women like goods in a factory. Protest marches and fundraising failed
  I'd heard stories of twenty-minute labours and births in the backs of cars, and was determined that it would never happen to us. Yet we were registered at a hospital near home over an hour away, through the sinuous Combe de Lourmarin, one of the last places you would want to negotiate with a wife in heavy labour: nothing but sheer cliffs and goat farms for miles.
  'But it's not due for another month,' I protested, trying to hide the panic creeping into my belly.
  'I know.'
  'And we haven't got anything ready.'
  'I know.' Tanya winced in pain.
  'I'll get the car.'
  I started at a fast walk, which somehow quickly became a jog and finally a run. I hadn't even asked how close together the contractions were.
  'Attention!' , 'Watch where you're going', 'What's the rush?' people called as I shoved through the crowds, fighting the flow of arrivals.
  The engine started first time and I crawled down the hill in the slow-moving traffic. I could see Tanya waiting at the roadside, hands on knees, panting. Despite the cold she'd taken off her coat, which she'd handed to one of the many onlookers. Nothing attracts a crowd like a sick person in France. A grazed arm is enough to have yourself escorted to the nearest bar for a restorative brandy. Blame is apportioned, remedies shared, the doctor called out to stem the bleeding.
  Perhaps twenty people had gathered around to offer their advice to Tanya. No doubt the majority of them were berating her imbecile of a husband. How had he allowed this to happen? Where was he now?
  Please let one of them be a midwife, I prayed, burying my head in my arms as I waited for the traffic to move. Shoppers zigzagged between the cars, and the municipal policemen tried to bring order to the chaos. What would our baby wear when it was born? The hospital had stipulated about thirty essential items â but we had nothing with us. Would it be a boy or a girl? I really didn't care, as long as we got to the hospital. The pregnancy bible, What to Expect When You're Expecting , sat on the dashboard in front of me. The author certainly hadn't told us to expect this.
  'Let's go.' Tanya slammed the door and a gap briefly opened in the traffic. A couple of bends later and the soft folds of the Luberon hills came into view. The panic was gradually replaced by an unexpected sense of calm. Finally it was going to happen, after months of waiting â a Christmas present to beat all Christmas presents. I'd heard good things about Pertuis hospital, which was much closer than Apt. We'd make for there.
  'OK?'
  Tanya nodded weakly. There was silence for a minute or so.
  'There's just one thing,' she said tentatively. 'I left the truffle on the table.'
Chapter 2
P ertuis hospital smelt of strong detergent and overcooked food. The walls of the maternity ward were painted a crumbling pink and lined with arty black-and-white photos of semi-naked women with their babies. Strangely some of the mothers had chosen to wear their finest lingerie, giving the images an overtone of sexuality.
  'Might as well look your best,' I joked to Tanya, but she didn't reply. Instead, she scanned the empty corridor for signs of a midwife. According to the local paper the service on offer was one of the best in France. People travelled up to two hours to have their baby in Pertuis, lured by its holistic approach â acupuncture, massages, aqua births, aromatherapy and, most importantly for Tanya, epidurals. Whatever the mother-to-be wanted, was provided.
  Part of the reason for the hospital's notoriety was the French state's continual attempts to shut it down. The government wanted to concentrate resources on large birthing centres, cramming them with machinery and processing women like goods in a factory. Protest marches and fundraising failed
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