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obvious reason, we put Madeleine down and she slept for a solid six hours. That was a real red-letter day.
    Those first few months were quite an isolating time for me on the whole. While almost all my friends in Liverpool and Glasgow had children, my Leicester friends did not, which meant they were working and not around during the day. Mostly, then, it was just me and my special little buddy. Although Queniborough was a lovely village, our walks there tended to be rather aimless as there was no café or anything to walk to. And the fields where Gerry and I went running were impossible with a buggy.
    So in some ways returning to work part-time in November 2003, while Madeleine started at a nursery near our home, was not such a bad thing. Although I hated the thought of being apart from her, I felt I needed to keep my hand in at the surgery: professionally, it’s not a great idea to drop out for long periods. I also knew that nursery would bring a little more variety into Madeleine’s world. Leaving her was an incredible wrench at first, but as we settled into our new routine I found it gave me a break of sorts, in terms of doing something different, at least, and mixing with people. And it helped get my spongy brain back into gear.
    As it turned out, this arrangement didn’t last long: in January 2004, when Madeleine was seven months old, we rented out our house and moved for a year to Amsterdam, where Gerry had a fellowship to study cardiac magnetic resonance imaging (MRI). The use of this specialized imaging technique in cardiology was at that time relatively new in the UK, and the posting was a big success. Gerry’s great new colleagues soon became firm friends and what he learned in Amsterdam advanced his career on our return.
    Since it wasn’t going to be feasible for me to work in Amsterdam, I had Madeleine all to myself again. I’ve always considered myself very lucky to have been given this opportunity to spend quality time with her. We joined two mums-and-toddlers groups and a swimming club, where we quickly made friends; we would go to the park, drop into a café or just enjoy a lazy girls’ afternoon in our apartment, treating ourselves to a movie and a slice of cake. It was a little piece of heaven.
    As special as Madeleine was to us, and as fortunate as we felt to have her, both Gerry and I were keen to expand our family. Given our fertility problems, this was going to mean another attempt at IVF. We had no way of knowing if it was likely to work again and, even if it did, how long it might take. As a first step, in the spring I went along to see a GP. Not being Dutch citizens, we weren’t sure if we would be entitled to any treatment at all, so we were surprised and delighted when, just a month later, we had an appointment with a specialist and within only six more weeks we found ourselves starting another cycle of IVF in Amsterdam.
    For the most part, everything was far easier psychologically this time round. Much as I wanted another baby, Madeleine had lifted me from the despair of childlessness, thank God, and I was now able to approach the IVF a little more philosophically. If it succeeded, brilliant; if it didn’t, then we only needed to look at what we had already to be content. It was a weird period emotionally, though. I couldn’t help feeling a little guilty, as if we were somehow overlooking Madeleine, not focusing on her 100 per cent, in our haste to move on to ‘the next one’. I loved her so much but I also knew that a little brother or sister would enhance her life, too.
    The treatment cycle did the trick and I was pregnant again. We were overjoyed. This time, however, the scan revealed two little beating hearts. Twins. Wow! We were thrilled but also a little apprehensive. Having worked in obstetrics and anaesthetics, I was only too aware of the increased risks and complications associated with carrying twins. I wondered if my skinny body would be able to accommodate two babies. Our