Open Annabel Crabb
People have babies all the time. It’s among the least original things a human can do, apart from dying and wearing ironic T-shirts. I feel, defensively, that I should point that out before telling this story. We were in our mid-thirties. We lived in London and held down capable jobs. We had conceived a baby, after that customary awkward interregnum that confronts 30-something couples when they pull that strategic handbrake turn from years of applying ingenuity to the task of not getting pregnant.
The public
