I wrinkle my nose. I don't really like it when she talks about the baby. I just want to forget about it. It's getting harder and harder, though, because Mum's e-n-o-r-m-o-u-s. Her tummy sticks out so fat she can hardly get her T-shirt overt it. I can see her tummy button through the material and it makes me shudder. When I was very, very little, I thought that was how babies were born: you just pressed the button and the tummy opened, and out popped the baby. It takes me ages to get to sleep at Liz's. I keep thinking of poor Mum in pain in the hospital breathing in and out, in and out, in and out. I breathe along with her, keeping her company long distance. I get up to go to the loo, and Liz calls out form her bedroom. We spend the whole day at the hospital. We sit in Mum's room on hard orange chairs, Jack on onside, me on the other. Jack talks to her a lot, whispering all sorts of mushy stuff. Something he tries telling her jokes. The nurse laughs a couple of times, but Mum doesn't give the flicker of a smile. Her eyes are still closed. Jack gets ready to take me to school on Wednesday. He hasn't done any washing so we have to fish my grubby school blouse out of the laundry basket. I'm running out of socks and knickers too. I struggle with my bunches my selft. I don't know what to do with my fringe.