I wriggled my body off the bed and felt my coccyx give way with a big push. Our first child was born. A beautiful baby girl, weighing in at 3 kg, we were both overwhelmed with love and joy. The midwife delivered the placenta and examined my episiotomy. She frowned. “I'll call the registrar,” she said. After pushing for nearly an hour and a half the baby had arrived only just before the forceps. The registrar peered at my perineum, shook his head, and said, “I'll just give the consultant a ring.” The consultant duly arrived. He too prodded and probed, and said “Hmm. You're very swollen and there's going to be a lot of stitching.” I was given a general anaesthetic for him to suture my episiotomy, which had extended into a third degree tear. I awoke and looked at my baby and when she gazed at me there existed a feeling of almost palpable love. This illusion of ethereal lightness and love, however, was soon shattered. On day three baby blues struck. Worse was to follow. By now uncomfortably constipated, I thought a couple of glycerine suppositories would do the trick. The nurse administering them puzzled over my patchworked rear end. As my husband walked in five minutes later I ran, too late, …