I am still intact, albeit out of breath. The answer to what seems to be everybody's universal question for me is "there is not a single sign I would deliver the baby except that he is now in week 39, going to 40, as indicated by the stretched belly."
Everybody here includes strangers who think I walk in a manner that belongs only to labour room. No disengagement of mucus plug. Not even vaginal discharge. The edema has not subsided, either. There is only accumulating cellulite.
So, I walked and walked. Eventually, I ended up in a bookstore, where I got myself two books. Milan Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being and Mitch Albom's Tuesdays With Morrie. I hope I will be able to save one for the labour room. The ambitious me.
I have pictures from the weekend, but I would like to enjoy my personal masseur's kneads first. Bonne nuit. I will walk more tomorrow.