No laughing matter?

Abstract

It was the usual labour ward pandemonium: a slow breech delivery; a distressed, grossly overweight, multiparous woman with her feet up in stirrups; an exasperated nurse holding her hand; and blood, sweat, tears, liquor, meconium, and other less salubrious body fluids flying everywhere. My colleague was a tall, handsome, effortlessly charming Australian. We were waiting at the business end; we had been very concerned about fetal distress, and had almost reached panic level, but the clinical picture had suddenly improved and the crisis seemed to be over. We had both heaved a huge sigh of relief and …