The phone call comes in in the early hours of the morning (I am a night duty legend). Mrs So and so, who is having her forth baby is on the other end. She lives just a few minutes away from the hospital and feels as though she needs to come in.

Now.

She has one contraction through the phone call and she is unable to talk throughout the duration. I take some details and tell her we’ll be waiting.

I prepare a room close to the desk and just as I have pulled the bedspread off the bed she bursts through the double doors of the birthing suite.

Her eyes are wild with labour, her blonde hair stuck to her face in a mix of sweat and weather.

Before I can introduce myself she runs, hell for leather, to the end of the corridor, to the room as far away from the desk as she can be.

I run after her.

Nothing in that room is ready and she is a multi.

As I reach the door, I can hear the shower. The constant roar of the water is only broken by the familiar gutteral sounds of a woman about to birth.

She is pushing!

I race into the cubicle (with no gloves and no instruments) just in time to see the baby fly from between her legs. There is nothing to cushion the infant and I am unable to dive into the shower fast enough for a successful catch.

I hit the emergency buzzer and other midwives come running. We clamp and cut the cord, call the paed to look the bathroom baby over.

All is ok with the bub but she will need observation after her meeting with the floor.

I walk back into the bathroom to find my lady, placenta, as yet, undelivered, swinging what is left of the umbilical cord, from between her legs, in slow, Broadway - esque circles.

“I’m so glad that is over”, she quips as I survey the area.

Birth is never dull, I muse, as I lead her to the bed.