Fields of Gold

Today is our anniversary. Not of our marriage, or our first date precisely, but just the start of… us. Six years ago today – or possibly tomorrow, I’m never quite sure – John and I were, to quote his Best Man’s wedding speech, alone together in the dusty confines of his combine cab.

We had a reservation booked at a local restaurant for Sunday dinner, but we cancelled. I was up most of the night with Harry, who desperately worried us early this morning with his continuous heartbreakingly thin threnody of single-note wailing. I’ve never seen him look so pale and ill since NICU, and he was writhing about, obviously in pain. He finally vomited a good pint or more of undigested milk all over me, soaking me right through to bra and knickers. Heaven only knows where he’d been keeping it all. The poor lad had been breastfeeding for comfort all through the night and early this morning, and had obviously digested not one drop. 

Of course, we galloped him up the drive to be prodded at by the Delightful Doctors Next Door. They get no peace from us whatsobloodyever, poor souls. Harry took a long whiff of fresh hill breeze en-route, and visibly decided that he was much happier with his life minus the milk-belly; the little rascal perked right up. Once frog-marched back down again in disgrace (as it’s the third time he’s pulled that particular recovery trick now) he went promptly went worringly limp and inconsolable again. Grrrr. He’s improved again this afternoon; has eaten a tiny amount, and is now tucked up quietly in bed, although I am pessimistically not expecting much in the way of rest in the small hours.

We agreed that there are far worse ways to spend an anniversary than nursing and coddling a much-adored, much suffered-for, long-awaited son. John managed to dash out between the storms to combine for a couple of hours earlier this evening, so I put a reasonably cheerful Harry in the car, and drove down the track and across the fields to show him the combine – a newer one, as it happens – and the place where his parents’ story began.

He cried. Silly young bugger.

4 Responses

  1. Oh dear. According to, a bloke wrote this post.

    Oh well. I’d only have something to gain.

  2. One of the best love stories I’ve ever read, despite the threat of exposed bollocks.
    Hope Harry gets ALL better soon, not just enough to embarrass you at the Doctors.

  3. Awwwwww what a wonderful story. Wishing you a happy anniversary of the beginning and Harry a speedy recovery!

  4. This is absolutely beautiful. Bollock and all.

Comments are closed.

%d bloggers like this: