John and I did the ridiculously boyish thing of setting the alarm clock for Rebecca Addlington's second gold medal chance, aimed to stay up and watch Paula Radcliffe in the marathon which started just after midnight on Saturday, and set the alarm again in the middle of the night to watch Michael Phelps' 8th gold medal race. We let Paula down by giving up and falling asleep in the marathon but saw the live swimming.
Erin, up in Scotland, seemed to have a great time and kept texting me as such throughout. On the way back one took me by surprise: 'I wish you could feel what I'm feeling and when I come home, maybe you will.'
When she did get home we caught up and chatted and laughed about what we'd got up to and then when it was time to relax a little she told me to do what I'd got excited but forgotten about doing earlier.
'Did you feel it?'
'No.'
'Move your hand down a little?.'
'There? And again.'
'Yes, and yes.'
I closed my eyes to imagine what was going. A kick? Or punch? Or a stretch? Who knows? It was just incredible to think what is going on in there. A growth of life. Is this where the verb to describe feelings, moving, comes from?
It was even better than the strike scored against Sunderland for Liverpool to secure their first win of the season.
3 comments:
Kinda makes you wish it had a little oven light, doesn't it?
Until then, here's the next best invention: www.babytoupee.com
Brilliant. There needs to be a British version too, with the Liam, the Beatles' mop top and the Duncan Goodhew.
C'mon be a bit more bold; this isn't babyswimcap. What about the Amy Winehouse, the Marc Bolan, or the Lady Sovereign?
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