'Harley Street in Technicolour!'

It is warm in the 1961 Chrysler Imperial. Just purchased by your husband – all steel and chrome, 450 horsepower, AM radio. Ready to drive you into a new age.

You forgot about the radio – so now you take your white-gloved hand from the wheel (under the glove your knuckles are white too) and push the radio button with only the slightest tremor in your fingers.

Ha – of course it had to be this song! Come on and be my little good luck charm, Uh huh huh, you sweet delight…

Elvis is still crooning when you pull up in Harley Street. The way you slam the door, that sweet cream flank of the car, is barely noticeable.

It is sixpence for the hour. You have never used one of these parking meters before – only just introduced, you know, a machine from the future!

You fumble for the coin. Ungloving one hand, you can feel the sweat between your fingers and the shard of silver in your pocket. Come on and be my little good luck charm…

I should have –

You stop yourself. No point.

You drop the coin into the meter and smooth down the folds of your cocktail dress – polyester, you know, the fabric of the future! You wonder if the gay floral pattern is too garish for the occasion. No point in thinking about that now either – your appointment is in ten minutes.

The brick four- and five-storeys of Harley street loom over you as you walk towards the clinic. As you arrive, you see the iron railings, the brief sweep of steps up to the black double door. Before you know it, you are there at the bell. You press the large gold button and wait.

You are quite sure that the receptionist who answers the door introduced themselves, but now, sitting in the waiting room, you cannot remember their face. You realise it is because you were unable to meet their eye.

A smiling crisp-uniformed nurse offers you tea but your mouth is too dry to stammer out acquiescence. Behind the reception desk, a transistor radio plays. It’s just a matter of time, Brook Benton reminds you…

In the final moment before the brisk and large-gestured doctor comes to take you through to the procedure room, you place one hand on your stomach, try and feel the life in your churning guts.

I’m sorry, you whisper in your mind, but the words sound hollow and too small.

Afterwards, walking back to your 1961 Chrysler Imperial, all steel and chrome, you realise that all you can remember of the procedure is this: the sight of the doctor opening his toolbox, the implements inside, all steel and tubes and sharpness, a box of horrors.

Driving home, you turn on the radio. Ella Fitzgerald holds you the whole way back.

You cried the long night through, Well, you can cry me a river, Cry me a river, I cried a river over you…