Virginia McMillan/Creative Commons
Now the PM and her partner, Clarke Gayford, have shown off their daughter to the world (video at the end of this post), it reminded me of my own experiences in the maternity ward many years ago.
Iâm not a parent at the time of writing: Iâm talking about the 1980s when I visited Wellington Womenâs Hospital (as it then was), to wait for my Mum, a postnatal midwife, to finish work.
The 1980s donât seem that long ago to me, and all these memories are still very clear, but when you relay the story, you realize decades have passed.
Mum shifted to WWH in 1980, when it first opened, and I still recall having a preview tour of the building before it opened. New carpets, new fixtures. Hand-held buzzers hooked up to the wall where you could call for a nurseâhow modern! The 1980s had well and truly arrived, and how lucky of those patients, because this place was like a hotel. We really did think it was that flash in 1980.
And it was a nice place to visit. I finished school at St Markâs at 2.45 p.m. and the bus would usually get to the hospital by around 3 p.m. There was a long walk to the building at the back, taking an internal route, and walking through a basement tunnel with painted stripesâit felt like a science-fiction movie. Iâd get to Ward 15 and I was expected to wait in the TV room.
The TV room was next to the âday roomâ, which really meant the smoking room, where new Mums could pop in and have a fag. Every now and then, youâd get a naughty new mother whoâd take an ashtray into the TV room, where Iâd be waiting, but we are talking the early 1980s, and the term secondhand smoke had not entered the vernacular.
Of course, we youngsters werenât allowed to change the channel if adults were watching. Unfortunately, in the days of two state-run channels, most new mothers would watch Prisoner, and I donât mean The Prisoner, with Patrick McGoohan. I meant the Australian soap opera Prisoner, set in a womenâs prison, and known to British readers as Prisoner: Cell Block H. I could never comprehend why anyone would watch the sheer misery of the storylines about a womenâs prison, but I suppose in the early 1980s, these ladies were thinking: âNo matter how tough things are for me, at least Iâm not in Wentworth.â I would wait patiently for 3.30 p.m. to tick by, and Lynne Hamilton singing âOn the Insideâ (itself a depressing, haunting theme tune) and the Grundy logo were signs that relief was coming. However, to this day, I still know this blasted song, and can play it by ear on a piano. Without checking online:
On the inside the roses grow,
They donât mind the stony ground.
But the roses there are prisoners, too,
When morning comes around.
Only once do I remember a Mum offering me control of the TV during the Prisoner hour to watch whatever channel I wanted, and of course, that meant the childrenâs programming, eventually an after-school show imaginatively titled After School, hosted by a cheerful Te Reo-speaking man called Olly Ohlson.
Mum would be another 15 to 30 minutes, so my time in front of the telly was fairly limited. Weâd walk home to Newtown in those days, and my memory of that journey home was that it was often sunny. Of course, that couldnât have been the case, as I have equally strong memories of below-zero temperatures on the radio in the morning in 1981, and very grey weather watching Springbok tour marches (including fights between protesters and police officers) outside my window growing up. Those may or may not be the subject of another blog entry, as Iâm not traditionally one to post childhood reminiscences on this blog.