When I saw you in the corridor of the maternity ward in the early hours of last tuesday, I perhaps came across as a bit of a nutter. I hadn't slept for three days and was a little off kilter. I was acting as a birthing partner to my best friend who was going through a particularly lengthy labour, when you innocently popped your head round the door to ask the midwife on duty if there was a spare birthing ball for the labouring lady in the next room. You didn't expect a delirious woman to collapse at your feet declaring you to be their soulmate. You looked a bit scared, and soon hurried away (minus the birthing ball).
Let me explain. Until that point (last tuesday) you had been a vision, a saviour, a hero, and perhaps not quite real. I'd spent the last year telling anyone who would listen, that I would have married you on the spot, if it weren't for the fact that you were gay, and I was already married and giving birth to my husband's child.
For, on arrival at the hospital all those months ago, with my baby Dolly hurtling out, you heard my pleading screams from the main reception 'SOMEBODY GET ME THE GAS AND AIR NOOOOOOWWW'. And that somebody was you. I needed that gas and air like nothing else on earth, and you delivered, at a remarkable speed.
So for that I thank you, and hope that this goes some way to explaining my perhaps slightly odd behaviour last week when I staggered out of the delivery suite (full of my labouring friend's gas and air).