Lisa turned to me at 5 o'clock this morning and said this:

"It's a good job we're not at Z's house, sharing a bathroom with people we barely know."

She'd been throwing up since two. It's now ten-thirty, and she still hasn't stopped. Cancelling that trip to Suffolk was the best thing we ever did.

Suffice it to say that the week of surprises is still going strong. We had four (yes, four) fire engines turn up outside yesterday afternoon, and spent an enjoyable half hour watching burly firemen with breathing apparatus climbing the stairs past our flat to put out a blaze on another floor. It was like The Towering Inferno on a budget, and I was Robert Wagner, reassuring Lisa by lying through my teeth. In reality, I wasn't sure what was more likely to kill us: the smoke coming in through our open windows, or the heatstroke we'd get if we closed them.

Fortunately we managed to survive that bit of excitement, but after the night we've had, I'm not sure Lisa's long for this world. She's been vomiting for eight hours, and can't keep anything down. I've phoned the midwife at the hospital, and she's advised me to give Lisa a teaspoon of water every ten minutes, and get some Dioralyte from the chemist. She said to phone them back if any contractions start. I told her not to go there.

If Lisa can't keep down those teaspoons, we're supposed to phone the doctor this afternoon. In the meantime, I'm off to the chemist...