Abortion: still a dirty word  Last week, my boyfriend and I saw
our friend's baby for the second time. The minute I saw the
baby, I fell, in every way possible; fell down on the floor and
babbled at him for an hour and a half, finally to be rewarded by
that singular finger-gripped-by-tiny-fist routine and that
priceless gummy smile. Then I went home with my boyfriend and
watched EastEnders, from which I learned that having an abortion
renders a woman "cold and empty" for ever more (Dot) and that
even giving up a baby for adoption wreaks havoc with one's
mental health (Sonia). I just knew that there was something in
my back pages that I was supposed to be remembering now,
probably "wistfully" and preferably tearfully, and just a little
cerebral prodding shook it loose. My abortions! All five of
them.  Exposure to Polly's breastfeeding, followed by Dot and
Sonia's breast-beating, should by rights have launched me into a
right royal depression, or at least a bit of "bittersweet"
brooding over my barren terrain.