Hallelujah! Apparently the baby is "probably head down, although the head hasn't dropped into the pelvis yet."
Presumably this means he's already starting to gear up for birth.
Obviously do not want baby to be born immediately, but at least he isn't in a weird position. At least not at the moment (probably shouldn't speak too soon).
So today I had another appointment with the consultant at the hospital, and the good news is, as long as everything continues to be fine, I won't need to see them again and can just continue to see the midwife. Although they also told me to cancel tomorrow's appointment with the midwife as there's no point doing all the same tests two days running, so no lie-in for me, followed by a lovely breakfast at Pret A Manger and leisurely few hours off work tomorrow then, which had been pretty much what I had been looking forward to most this week, but instead I'll have to take solace in the fact that I missed an undoubtedly tedious meeting at work this afternoon instead.
Also, I feel I should report that there were fewer "how not to kill your baby" information videos on the hospital screens today. Instead myself and the other pregnant whales (I swear I have never seen so many pregnant women in one room) were treated to such enlightening statements as "some people say your breasts are for men, but for me they are for feeding my child" from the breastfeeding information video.
Now I don't know if it's just that I am particularly highly educated (even if I do say so myself, thank you ladies and gentlemen, I'll take plaudits where I can) or if I have a particularly high degree of common sense, but it had not at any point occurred to me that the evolutionary purpose of my bosoms, such as they are, for I am not over-endowed in that area, are for any purpose other than feeding children. I am not such a fool as to suppose that the highest point of all evolution is the ability to flaunt one's assets to the nation on Page 3 of the Sun, a newspaper I found lying around on the train on the way to work this morning and actually physically turned away and stopped myself picking up to read when I saw that it was that particular rag, and not, as I had at first assumed, a discarded copy of the Metro. And yet the NHS must spend billions on this patronising claptrap.
Ironically, it was only last week that a good friend of mine, who has three children ranging in age from ten to seven months, told me that when she was breastfeeding her first child, she had been advised to wean at four months, and in the space of ten years that advice has somehow leapt up to at least six months. Could it be that before long we regularly see eighteen year olds going off to university having one last tearful feed at their mother's breast before the final cutting of the apron strings? My own mother was advised to stop breastfeeding me at three weeks, so it looks as though that could be the way things are going. Or maybe we'll be caught in an eternal vicious cycle of Those In The Know constantly changing their minds and going right back to a policy of formula feeding for all. Who knows?
Anyway, I'm off to practise my breathing again. I thought I'd almost got the hang of it last night so hopefully by the time Little One decides to make an appearance I'll be a pro.