First Christmas

Five years ago I wrote of the traditions of Christmas that were ending for me, due to the changes in my life, and I spoke of starting new traditions. There are a few customs which I have started since then, a message such as this being one of them, but I am looking forward this year to rekindling one tradition that my Mum and I used to share. Every year on Christmas Eve, from when I was a baby until I was maybe eight years old, my mum would read me a poem which is entitled He Comes in the Night, and this year, before Michelle and I relax on the couch with some hot chocolate and watch It's a Wonderful Life I will read the poem to my son.

This is Nathan's first Christmas and our first Christmas as a family. At nineteen weeks old Nathan is, of course, too little to understand Christmas, though he does like the tree and seems to enjoy the Christmas songs we sing to him. Last year I had written, quite stupidly, that I did not see the sense in getting baby gifts at Christmas. While I still remember the logic of that line of thought, I know that if I had not said it and heard it elsewhere now I would find the very idea abhorrent. Nathan's daddy is very much looking forward to helping his sons tiny and uncoordinated hands rip open the gifts that he has gotten his baby boy.

Change has been the defining characteristic of this year. There have been beginnings, endings and new beginnings over the year, and not just for me. Some were happy changes like mine, some were sad and some were bittersweet. Lives and relationships have altered dramatically as priorities and perceptions shifted. It has not been an easy year and the same can be said for too many of the years recently past, but now more than ever I look forward to what the new year will bring. For quite a few people I know there is much to look forward to indeed.

Christmas has always been a time for me when I try (I said try) to be positive. Santa's rules of no shouting, pouting or crying are a good rule of thumb for this season, and good will to all men (and women) seems to me to be a reasonably good idea too. For a few days I urge you all to enjoy what you have rather than bemoan what you do not. There will be plenty of time to worry another time.

Have a great Christmas everyone, I wish nothing but the best for you all.

I'll leave you with the poem I will be reading to Nathan:

HE comes in the night! He comes in the night!
He softly, silently comes;
While the little brown heads on the pillows so white
Are dreaming of bugles and drums.

He cuts through the snow like a ship through the foam,
While the white flakes around him whirl;
Who tells him I know not, but he findeth the home
Of each good little boy and girl.

His sleigh it is long, and deep, and wide;
It will carry a host of things,
While dozens of drums hang over the side,
With the sticks sticking under the strings.

And yet not the sound of a drum is heard,
Not a bugle blast is blown,
As he mounts to the chimney-top like a bird,
And drops to the hearth like a stone.

The little red stockings he silently fills
Till the stockings will hold no more;
The bright little sleds for the great snow hills
Are quickly set down on the floor.

Then Santa Claus mounts to the roof like a bird,
And glides to his seat in the sleigh;
Not the sound of a bugle or drum is heard
As he noiselessly gallops away.

He rides to the East, and he rides to the West,
Of his goodies he touches not one;
He eateth the crumbs of the Christmas feast
When the dear little folks are done.

Old Santa Claus doeth all he can,
This beautiful mission is his;
Then, children, be good to the little old man
When you find who the little man is.

Standstill

At least 8 inches of snow has fallen today in East Kilbride and the wold has come to a stop. The heating in my work broke and so the building was closed. Then the schools closed. Then the Town Centre closed.

I went to the shops to get cold medicine for Nathan. The paths were so deep that I had to walk down the main road and I had to push three cars to get them moving-
Hold on a minute-
Sorry, I had to run out and push another car there.

Where was I, oh yeah... Snow.

My brother is stranded in Eastwood Toll. My aunt (sorry Eileen) has been stranded in Bellshill since before 9am and hasn't been heard of for over five hours now. My Father-in-Law, a bus driver, had to stop in the middle of his route and ask the passengers to get off, he too is (you guessed it) stranded. Twitter and The Facebook tell different variations of the same stories.

On the other hand, the views are spectacular.

Inconsolable

So, it was Michelle's works Christmas night out tonight meaning that Nathan and I had the night to ourselves. I've looked after Nathan myself now a few times without any problems what so ever.

Just before 6pm Nathan inexplicably, uncontrollably and inconsolably started to sob. And then cry. And then scream. He didn't stop for over an hour.

Nothing calmed him. I cuddled him and he screamed. I gave him his dummy and he screamed. I tried to feed him and he screamed. I rocked him. I danced. I sang. I begged. I cried. I sacrificed a goat! He screamed. He screamed He screamed. He took a big deep breath... And then he screamed.

So what could I do? I knew what would calm him. If you're a mother reading this, you probably know what would calm him too. And so, frantic myself at this point, I reluctantly and regrettably had to make the call and bring Nathan's mummy home from her first night out in eight months.

And so Michelle fed him and consoled and, being a nice person and a good wife and mother, claims not to mind at all being called home. She told me that he was upset just because he's not been himself today (he had a bit of a sore stomach and is teething) and that I did the right thing to call her home. Maybe. All I know is that my little boy was upset and his daddy couldn't do anything to help him.

Brown Windows

Every time my mum drives round to my home she makes the same two remarks. Firstly that she should call the council about the parking in the culdesac where we live (getting round the road in the car is very tight) and secondly she comments on my upstairs neighbours windows. Friday past was no exception, though this time she added to her usual lament saying "I didn't know he had a cat."

As soon as Michelle and I had looked up to see her I was running up the stairs and pounding on my neighbours door. No answer, but in the course of the weeks of looking for Fudge I had met to a woman who lived round the corner from us and she had told me her father lived above me.

I quickly ran round to her door. I was furious. When her husband answered I told him that his father-in-law had my cat and that I wanted a key to go in and get her. The daughter was very cagey I felt but then I was far from calm after she had told me that her dad had "brought in a cat" about a month ago "a fluffy one". I had spoke to this woman at length about the cat being missing, I had shown her a picture of her, and I had put a leaflet through her door. She knew. I don't know at which point she knew, but she knew her father had taken our cat.

I kept calm in the daughters home. If I wanted in that flat I had no choice. She did not have a key but she told me she was on her way out to meet her dad for lunch. Her husband told me that he would be back with the key within the hour.

A little past her husbands self imposed deadline the daughter phoned and told me her dad had not yet arrived where they had to meet but that I would get my cat back that night. I didn't like her tone. Too nervous. I decided I would wait no longer than an hour and if my neighbour had not returned by then I was going into his flat by any means I could.

Thirty minutes later the old man was walking up the path and I came out to meet him. His daughter had got it touch with him but they were not meeting for lunch as she had claimed. Why she would lie about that I have no idea, but at the same time I was not surprised that she had done so. The old man claimed that whatever he was told had been obscured by the sound of the bus so when I told him the situation he acted surprised. "I saw a cat behind the telly a couple of weeks ago" he told me "but I never found it again". He never found it again? So, what did he think? That he imagined it? That it somehow escaped? His story changed a little every time but at that point I was ignoring him and telling him that I was going into his home to find my cat.

His flat was thick with dirt and stagnant stinking air. I quickly found where the cat had been doing the toilet - the corner of his livingroom. "In here? It's done the toilet in here?!" said the old man. He went on to claim he didn't live there. A lie; We hear his TV blaring and his toilet flush every night.

At this point you may start to feel sorry for this man. I've referred to him as an old man, yes, but in truth he is only in his mid to late sixties. He is quite deaf but by all indications he seems to have his full mental capacity. He is not to be pitied. I have thought about this for a long time and for the cat to enter his home he would have to have let her do so. She may have entered his home of his own free will but she would have done so slowly and cautiously. This is not a man who would leave his door ajar, not with the filth that could be seen by peering inside. No, he has let her enter and then shut her in. Not to care for her it seems given the frail and dehydrated state we found her in but just... I have no idea why. To reemphasis: he is not a creature to be pitied.

Fudge ran from her hiding place in his wardrobe when she saw me. She was scared. I picked her up and left him in his filth without saying a word. Back downstairs I put Fudge straight into a cat carrier to take her to a vet. The vet couldn't see us immediately and so I let her out. Only then did she realise where she was. She rubbed her face on my hands and let me pet her for the first time in a month. She was gone. She was dead. Yet suddenly she was home.

As for the old man, his claim to not have known Fudge was in his home is, to put it mildly, extremely unlikely. When I brought her home she still had her collar on which has a loud bell attached and the vet told me that her throat was red from shouting. Above all else though, the biggest reason that what he says is untrue is that despite being timid, Fudge would have approached him at some point of the course of a month if only to be fed or get water. Add these facts to his and his daughters ever changing stories (she called me that night and said that she didn't think her dad had had my cat all that time, despite telling my earlier that her father had brought a cat in a month ago) and I come up with... what? Are they crazy? Certainly that or just plain evil.

All is well that ends well though. One week later Fudge is more like her old self and, though still a little jumpy, she seems very happy. And the old man? An environmental health officer will be visiting him any day now.

Here Comes the Son

"That one was was just over four minutes... That was just under three... Jesus! That was barely two minutes apart for the last two! We need to phone them."

And so I phoned Wishaw General's Maternaty Triage Unit and, in a short time later, Michelle and I were in the back of an ambulance on the way to have our baby. Finally!

Having been due on 1 August our boy was, at that point, 10 days late. A length of time which put a strain on Michelle's resolve and my ability to come up with daily Facebook puns. Nevertheless he was on his way; with contractions averaging three minutes apart we knew it wouldn't be long before we could see the face we'd tried so hard to imagine for the past nine months.

Once in the hospital Michelle was taken in a wheelchair directly to a delivery room where we met Tina, the first midwife, who dealt with us right through the night into the morning. Tina was great; very nice and she didn't sugarcoat anything, which is a quality I always appreciate. After some checks and tests were done Tina told us that things were not all as they should be and, in particular, that the baby's heart rate indicted that he may struggle in what was likely to be a long labour. As this was the case it was Tina's assessment that Michelle should have a caesarian section.

The final word on whether or not Michelle was to have a section was to be the decision of the pediatrician, Dr DeRoy. As soon as the doctor came through the door she was greeted by Michelle, drunk on gas and air, calling her by her first name. It turns out that Sabine was a client at Michelle's salon and though Michelle does not personally cut her hair she obviously remembered her. Looking back on it Michelle remembers the small small voice inside her screaming "shut up you blithering idiot!" as she called out the doctors name.

Dr DeRoy did not want to be too hasty about the surgery but decided that Michelle should be given an epidural as the eventually of the surgery might have been inevitable.

After the epidural things seemed to calm down. Tina's shift ended and she was replaced by Linda (who I keep wanting to call Janet for some reason) and Karen, a trainee midwife. as the baby's heart rate was erratic there was always someone in the room and various checks were done regularly. It was hours of waiting and though the hours seemed to pass quickly it would be dishonest to say that the wait did not seem long.

And then Michelle was told to push. And she pushed! She put everything into each of those pushes and then pushed some more. She never even made a sound because she was so focused on pushing. She was tough.

Durning the course of Michelle's labour our soundtrack had been the erratic heartbeat we could hear on the monitor as well as see. Over the twelve hours I had got to know what the digital readout was when the heart rate dipped. As Michelle pushed and I encouraged her I tried to hide the fear on my face as I watched the the numbers on that display fall lower with every push. And on the the last push the heartrate stopped and for a terrible moment my heart stopped too until... Nathan was here. All of a sudden he was lying on his mothers chest as I cut his cord.

I had been told by many that the birth was disgusting. "Don't watch" they told me "it's horrific!". What a bunch of jessies! It's a life! It's beautiful! Truly the most amazing thing I have ever seen (and I've seen Cirque du Soleil!).

Twenty four hours after his birth we were all three of us on the way home, ready for a new life, new challenges and all the stories yet to be told.

Grey

Last night on the way home from work I got an unexpected phone call from an old friend; Fudge may have been spotted.

After an about an hour and seconds after my friends left I spoke to a woman walking her dog and was paused mid-sentence when for the first time in eight days I saw her. I coaxed her close for a long time until I was a foot away from the her but any time I moved to catch her she ran off. The fact that she would not come to me surprised me and though the colouring of the cat appeared the same her mouth was dark, which I thought may have been due to an injury, but still this made me doubt.

This morning Michelle and I went back the street she was seen, having left the night before after several unsuccessful attempts to grab her. We were 99% sure the cat was Fudge but almost as soon as we entered the street we came face to face with her again. Same long hair, same dark mouth, but grey. The yellow street lighting had changed the appearance of the cats colouring so much that even close up I was 99% sure it was Fudge.

As we had had that small doubt in our minds as to the cats identity in the first place Michelle and I had tried not to get our hopes up, but it would be a lie to say that we were not all but convinced that we had found our Fudge.

We are so grateful to our friends for looking and hope that they do not feel they got our hopes up needlessly. As I said before - even Michelle and I were close to 100% sure the cat was Fudge. We are very touched that you care so much.

Gone

This morning I woke up realising that there was little more I could do to find Fudge. Michelle and I along with the help of family and friends have searched for days in every direction possible. We have posted leaflets and put up posters offering a £100 reward. We have phone everyone we could phone four or five times and been told over and over again that there is no information on where Fudge could be.

Nobody has picked her up. Nobody helpful has phoned in repose to the posters (We've had two "prank" calls), Nobody has seen any trace of her since Tuesday night. 5 days have passed and there is no trace.

We have heard many stories of lost cats returning after days, weeks, even months but neither of us, Michelle or I, is convinced that this will be the case with Fudge. We still have a hope of course, but it is small and fading.

Fudge does not venture outside. She is not a hunter. She is not used to living in the open. She is timid and she would be afraid of anyone who approached her. The likelihood that she could survive outside for this long is slim.

Many may think it is ridiculous to that Michelle and I are so affected by Fudges disappearance, especially in light of the imminent birth of our son, but she is our cat.

Our cat who would watch for us coming home from the window before running to meet us at the door. Our cat who followed us around the house. Our cat who loved to eat a little bit of cake (especially coconut). Our cat who would purr so loudly just because she was near us. Our cat who we miss so much.
Our cat who is gone.

Missing

A little over 5 years ago I was asked if I would mind if Michelle was given a cat for her birthday. I wasn't overly keen on the idea but didn't want to be so mean as to say no.
A few days later we went to a house in Maryhill and picked up a long haired tabby kitten, which Michelle would later name Fudge.

I was completely uninterested in Fudge and went to the pub almost as soon as we brought her home. When I came in that night she was locked in our kitchen, scratching and mewing to get out. As soon as I opened the door she bolted right out and into the newly bought litter tray. That the little cat had been too proud the relieve herself on our newspaper covered kitchen floor duly impressed me and so I decided that shutting her in anywhere was counterproductive.

While I was happy not to keep her shut the kitchen I was determined that she would not be sleeping in the bedroom. No chance. Never.

At that time there was no latch on our bedroom door and so the only way to keep Fudge out was to block the door with my dumbbells. Obviously, if you have seen my massive arms, you can assume that these weights were far too heavy for a tiny baby kitten to move. In fact in order to get through a door blocked by these weights a tiny cat would have to fling herself repeatedly against the door in a single minded endeavour to do so; which is exactly what Fudge did.

Being the magnanimous person that I am (nothing to do with Fudge giving me no choice of course) I decided that she may sleep in the bedroom after all, in her own bed on the floor, never on our

bed. No chance. Never... Ah forget it!

Five years later and I now cannot settle in bed without Fudge at my feet. In fact when Fudge is in bed before me I will actually ease myself into bed so that I don't disturb her. I have indeed become a sad cat person.

At night she sometimes carries a little soft toy to bed in her mouth and sits and cleans it before she settles (something Michelle, a lifetime cat owner has never seen or heard of). In the morning she shouts impatiently as Michelle or I put out her breakfast. During the days and evenings she lays by our sides on the couch and whenever we leave a room Fudge is sure to quickly follow. Our little puppy cat. Our companion.

Fudge went missing just after 6pm on Tuesday 20th July. She is for the most part a house cat who never strays further than the grass outside our flat, for her to disappear is the last thing we ever expected. Since she's been gone I have walked the streets for hours searching, chapped on neighbours doors, phoned everyone that can be phoned and posted notices on surrounding bus stops. She hasn't eaten in 32 hours and the rain has rarely stopped coming down. There is little more we can do than wait at the point. All the while fearing that we may never stop waiting. That we may never see Fudge again. That she will always remain missing.

And yet, I cannot believe that. not Fudge. She may be timid but she is, as I have evidenced here, determined and single minded. If she is lost she will find her way home. If she has been taken she will escape. She will come home. I believe this. I have to believe this. I have to see my cat again. I have to see my Fudge again.

Onyway...

Michelle and I had parenting classes this week. The classes are split into two sessions - an hour with the physiotherapist and an hour with the midwife.

There were a few people in the class: A girl with her mother, a woman on her own, an obnoxious couple, and a very young couple.

Of the mother and daughter team the mother seemed to adamant that we all realise that she too had been pregnant at one point. During each segment of advice she would exclaim "Oh ah remember that" or "Ah don't miss that, Ah cin tell ye." after which the physio would pause and briefly acknowledge her with the strained politeness of a public servant.

The physio herself, who's name quite rudely escapes me, was a lovely woman, though when she spoke to the woman who came alone she did so in the same tone that you might use to speak to a small lost child: condescendingly gentle.

The next couple were nice enough though, as I said they were quite obnoxious by which I mean they (mostly the gentleman of the two) were simply a little louder and more self confident than Michelle and myself. That being said it did raise a few eyebrows when the midwife asked how the ladies were sleeping and he said that she tossed and turned so often that he sent her to the couch (His partner, quite meekly and clearly embarrassed, quickly clarified that she sleeps better there).

The young couple were pleasant and young. They earned a few unsure looks from the teachers when the class were being told of things that would happen just before labour started. After each segment of information the girl would speak up and tell us all that she thought these things had happened to her over the last few days. The third or fourth time this happened I half expected her waters to break right at that very moment.

Lastly there was Sandra, the midwife from Larkhall (a fact which she imparted several times). She was good; informal without being unprofessional and informative without being condescending. Often times when giving her advice she deviate from her initial point and tell a wee story in a kind of Billy Connolly-esque way. After each segway in conversation she would then return to her original point by saying "Onyway..." which I think is Larkhall for 'anyway' and the first time I'd ever heard the word pronounced that way.

Onyway... The classes were quite good. While they never really presented much information that we hadn't read about, it was reassuring to hear the advice from someone you could speak to rather than Heidi Murkoff.

4 week, 2 days to go.

'Till then.

The Strand

With just under five weeks to go until my boy's scheduled first appearance his nursery is looking close to completion. The furniture has been bought and built. The walls, shelve, skirting boards and ceiling have been painted. The carpet has been laid.

It's a nice soft carpet, made of two intertwined threads of blue, which is pleasant lie, walk and hopefully crawl on. The carpet had already been fit a few days before I was building the furniture and it was thenthat I saw it; I shrugged and smiled at it, to all appearances dismissing what had set my mind racing in outlandish and unfounded directions. It was a strand of carpet. Mixed in with the strands of winding shades of blue was a single strand of carpet which was made of two other colours: red and pink.

What are the odds that of all the square footage of this carpet in the world that that section of carpet would be bought by a retailer which Michelle and I would visit, and that we would then buy that particular section of carpet which contained a strand of red and pink within it for our baby's room? Are they the same odds of mistakenly being told that you will be having a boy? Probably not but still; makes you think. This was not as random a thought as it may seem either. Michelle had been told recently of two (TWO!) women who were told that they were having one gender by their midwife (or whomever does the scans) and ended up having the opposite gender. Both of these stories were told to her, I believe within a week, specifically the week before I found this symbolic strand of carpet.

In case you are interested, Google tells me that medical professionals will most often advise that there is a 10% margin of error when being told the sex of your baby.

Either way, whether we have the expected boy or an improbable girl, Michelle and I will be happy. Clothes with be exchanged, blue furniture will be adorned with pink flower or the likes and the world, as ever, will keep on turning.

4 weeks, 5 days until due date.

'Till then (or before).

THIS WEEK

I Watched: Land of the Lost, Nurse Jackie - Season 2, Southland - Season 2

I Read: Pronto by Elmore Leonard

Planned to a Tea

Today is Michelle's birthday and I had planned to make her a nice New York style breakfast, of pancakes and bacon with Maple Syrup, all week.

Naturally, I had forgotten to buy any of the ingredients until the last minute. so I was off to Morrisons running about to pick up what I needed. I left the checkout three times because I'd forgoten one thing or another before I was finally satisfied that I had everything I need.

When Michelle got home she asked if I would make her a cup of tea. This reminded me that I hadn't picked up a special mini teapot with cup at my parents house. The cup/pot hybred was perfect for breakfast in bed so no sooner had Michelle stepped into a shower before I had vaulted over our viranda and sneakily over to my parents and back before she even knew I was gone. I am ninja.

So:
Food - CHECK.
Teapot - CHECK.
Magic.

I've been a little under the weather this last week or so and as a result I was kept awake all night. This gave me plenty time to mix up my pancake batter and prepare the perfect breakfast. Everything was going to plan: The pancakes were cooking nicely, the bacon was sizzeling under the gril, the kettle was boiled and the pot/cup was sitting ready for the tea. The tea... Where's the... Oh, it's okay, the tea bag container is empty but they are still some tea bags left in the cupboard... Maybe the other cupboard? The fridge?! No tea bags.

Okay okay, not the end of the world she can have a coffee. She's not really allowed coffee because she's pregnant but one small cup won't do any harm? Will it? No, it definatly won't. It'll be a treat. A birthday treat. Better than tea? Yes I think it might be. What's that smell...

Gah! The bacon! Aw look at it! It's all... well I wouldn't say burnt... But not really not burnt. Definatly more burnt than okay. But edible... probably.

Right I just need to get this coffee ready and... When did I put that pancake on? Ah! Too long ago! Is it... yes it's fine. Mostly fine. Less burnt and more okay.

For the the want of tea bag the pancake was overdone.
For the want of a tea bag a heavily pregnant woman was over caffinated.
For the want of a teabag the bacon was lost.
For the want of a tea bag a sleep deprived and overly self critical man was harassed.

All for the want of tea bag.

Sweet Dreams

While drifting off to sleep I have just imagined being woken up by a phone call from my mum to say that Eyjafjallajokull has erupted. She tells me that she should be okay but that a poisonous sulphuric gas will soon reach Scotland killing thousands. She tells me to get to a safe place but I can't think of anywhere to go. Outside I begin to hear shouting and destuction as panic starts on the streets.

Staring at the Son

Do you want to know the sex?" That was the question. Michelle and I had said all along that we would say 'yes' to the question if it were to be asked but that we ourselves would not ask what the sex was. That had been the plan since pretty much day one until Michelle had changed her mind a few days before our latest scan; she had been thinking that it would be nice to keep the gender of our baby a mystery. That was fine with me, I was confused at her change of heart given that we had talked about this at length in the past, but I had no major objections. So when the question came and Michelle said "Yes!" so suddenly I was a little surprised.

The nurse showed us rather than told us and I have to say: It's a funny thing to feel so happy while looking at a penis.

I'm a little worried about my boy having me as his father. Don't get me wrong, I'm a good man and I'll always be there for him, but what I'm worried about is that I don't really do things that other boys do. I'm not interested in any sports, I'd rather watch a good drama over an action comedy, and I do things like write blogs – all things that at times can isolate me from my male friends from time to time. That's fine for me, I love me (you've met me, you know that), but it can be lonely not liking the same things as most other people and I wouldn't want him to miss out on the things that might come naturally to other fathers. Luckily, in spite of my peculiarities, I have good friends and when I've told them of my concerns they have told me that they will be happy to help me out with any of the boy stuff I drop the ball on.

Our only concern now is a name. Our hypothetical daughter had been named months ago but with our hypothetical son we could never find anything that felt right. There are a few ideas of course but as of yet our actual son remains simply 'Baby'. Suggestions are welcome.

First Contact

Michelle and I saw our baby for the first time yesterday and, just as people told me it would, it all just feels so much more real.

We had an app on each of our iPhones which tells you what to expect in each week of the pregnancy. One of the features of the app is to comparatively tell you the size of the baby; "your baby is now the size of a blueberry." "...the size of a plum." "...the size of a lemon." etc. This is great and we look forward each week to find out which of the five-a-day the baby is as big as, but as a result you can't help but think of the baby as this little abstract fruit impersonator.

I don't know if it's nature or nurture which defines a persons personality but I do know that when the nurse prodded Michelle's belly to get the baby to move (to measure the head) my kid was having none of it. Each poke at it's home brought on a flurry of furrious little kicks and punches. "It's being stubourn, a wee fighter" the nurse said. Takes after me already.

With the best will it the world you probably don't really care about all this and that's fine. It's like seeing an excellent film that only you and your partner can appreciate. Not much happens in the film but every second is the most fascinating thing you have ever seen. The best bit? A little black spot on the screen which expands and retracts. The visible heart of your child - truely amazing.

I can't stop staring at our scan picture. It's not something I expected I would do but it is hypnotic to me. I can't really explain what I see or feel when I look at it (I have just written and deleted several attemps to do just that). It's just... amazing, fantastic or astonishing all seem to fall short of what I'm trying to say.

Our next scan is on the 19th of March and I can't wait.

'Till then.