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mushroom risotto for two and a couple of pots of tiramisu.
    By the time I was stuck in the queue behind a woman paying her bill with coupons, half of which were out of date, I’d been away from the car for fifteen minutes. When I got back, a traffic warden was writing me a ticket.
    “But I only parked on yellow lines because I had to buy a cabbage for my best friend. It’s an emergency. She really needs it. She’s a nursing mother and it’s for her breasts. So if you could see your way clear to letting me off a ticket, just this once, I would be enormously grateful.”
    “Sorry, miss. No can do.”
    He handed me the ticket and ambled off.
    “Miserable sod,” I muttered. I rammed the ticket into my coat pocket, got in the car and switched on the radio. William Shatner was singing “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,” which cheered me up in a weird kind of way.
    I hadn’t seen Rosie since just after Isobel was born. I’d arrived at the hospital with a gorgeous hand-smocked dress for the new arrival, which I hadn’t been able to resist even though I knew it wouldn’t fit her until she was at least three. I’d bought Ben picture books wrapped in Bob the Builder paper so that he wouldn’t feel left out.
    I’d promised Rosie that once she and Isobel got home, I would pop in every day, but two days after she was born, I went down with a cold. It wasn’t serious, but Rosie refused to let me visit in case the baby caught it.
    I couldn’t wait to hold her again. I’d spent ages marveling at this tiny newborn, counting her fingers and toes, watching her squirm and do that sucky thing babies do in their sleep. To say I’d felt the broodiness kick in was an understatement. That day at the hospital I’d been positively clucking with maternal desire. I still was. I couldn’t wait to see how she’d changed in two weeks.
    Rosie opened the door in her dressing gown. Her hair was hanging limp about her face, looking like it hadn’t seen an Herbal Essences bottle in days. There was also a faint whiff of baby puke about her. I could hear Isobel bawling in the background.
    There was no hug, no greeting, just a weary: “You sure you’re over your cold?”
    “Absolutely.”
    “OK, you can come in.”
    No sooner had I set foot in the hallway than Rosie burst into tears.
    “Sweetie, what is it?”
    “Everything,” she wailed.
    I put my arm round her shoulders and guided her into the living room. I couldn’t help noticing the sacks full of dirty nappies on the floor, the used breast pads on the coffee table. Isobel’s screams grew louder. I peeked into her crib. Her little arms and legs were thrashing. Her face was contorted and red. Was she in pain? Hungry? Wet? Or just pissed off? I had no idea.
    “I don’t know what to do,” Rosie sobbed. “Izzy hasn’t slept for three nights. My episiotomy is infected, and I’ve got a hemorrhoid the size of the Home Counties sticking out of my bum.” She pointed to a rubber ring on the sofa. “That’s what I have to sit on. And now my breasts have gotten infected and turned to bloody concrete.”
    “Oh, hon. You must be in agony.” I went to hug her.
    “Mind my boobs!”
    “I’m sorry. Come on, sit down.”
    She eased herself onto the rubber ring and I handed her the pack of greens. “Thanks for doing that. I really appreciate it. So welcome to my postpartum party. I’d ask you to dance, but I’m not sure my undercarriage would take the stress. I’d probably end up peeing all over the floor.”
    I told her she had to go to the doctor.
    “I will. I tried to get an appointment today, but there was nothing until Monday.”
    “OK. Now, what about food? Have you had dinner?”
    She shook her head.
    “I picked up some mushroom risotto. Why don’t I go and stick it in the oven?”
    “That sounds nice,” Rosie said, managing a smile.
    I headed into the kitchen.
    The strains of being a recently delivered mum were new to me, partly because I wasn’t a mother, but also