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ever caught in his career as a Southeast London fullback,
but only the sniffing dog of his girlfriend, with whom he’d
moved in only a few days earlier, was there to witness the
amazing feat.
“What on Earth?” asked Fergus, looking up at the sky
searching for an answer, more or less around the fifth floor
where an appalled Nurse Marianne was leaning out of the
window. Four months later he became my godfather, my
godlike all-protecting saviour, but I don’t want to rush
ahead. Fergus was kneeling on the damp grass under the
windows of the east wing of the clinic, not knowing
whether to laugh or cry, and I, desperately and (forever)
futilely began to yell for a breast.
Of Aza nothing remained but one useless right rubber
thong, which she carelessly threw into a corner before
putting on her sneakers. She changed into the dress she
had been wearing when the contractions started, when it
was time to go to the hospital.
Not ten hours had passed since then. Everything went so
fast, so smoothly, such a promising start and, what with all
the hurry, it was lucky that the flat wasn’t far from the
hospital. Aza had stopped at the sink, legs apart, leaning
forward and moaning in pain while a nervous Paul hurried
to the hallway dresser looking for the envelope into which,