December. The Gym. Outside, all colours tend towards black, like kindergarten paint. It's the end of one rainstorm and the beginning of the next: pewter sky, tossing trees, streaks on the window glass. Inside is filled with the hiss, whine and thud of treadmills and ski machines, the gasps of the large man to my right who is overdoing it on the stationery bike. A fan wobbles above; the lights flicker, teasing us with the prospect of a power failure. But on the TV screen clamped awkwardly to the ceiling above the front row of windows something amazing is taking place: a woman is giving birth.

It's been going on for a while, almost all night according to the information on the top left of the screen. The mother was serene when I first climbed onto the bike. Now, she's getting to the end and her mouth opens and her face convulses as the contraction comes. SCREAMS! the subtitler has typed. Her father hastily leaves the room; her husband and mother hang in there, standing at the top end and offering advice: BREATHE! BREATHE! The young medics lean in between the stirrups: YOU'RE SO NEARLY THERE, WE CAN SEE THE HEAD! I want to see it too but the camera is tactful. There's a constriction on my chest and throat as with one last SCREAM! The baby slithers into the medic's waiting hands, shiny with mucus and blood. Tears pour down my face as my legs continue to peddle effortfully up a pretend hill. The baby is wrapped, open mouthed and squirming - CRIES! - and placed on her mother's chest. Elated and exhausted, still cycling, I wipe my face on my T shirt and look around the gym for solidarity but everyone else is dry eyed and pointedly looking out of the window or at the walls.