One of the many people who knows all about our fertility struggles (well, not all - but she knew we were trying, then she knew we weren't going to do it without help, then about the two ICSI attempts) is my osteopath. I suppose when you see someone regularly, and on each visit you strip down to your underwear and lie face down on a bed while they do unspeakable things to your back, the situation lends itself to confiding a certain amount about what's going on in your life.
At the end of today's appointment, she handed me a bit of paper and explained that another of her patients had, like us, had two failed IVF attempts at the local hospital. She had then gone to one of the London clinics and was now pregnant with twins. She had raved about how wonderful this place was, and so the osteopath had written down its details for me.
And guess what? The clinic this woman was raving about was the XXXX clinic. And Mr No Nonsense had been as scathing about it with her as he was with me, but she had gone anyway, and she couldn't sing the praises of the XXXX consultant (henceforth to be known as Mr Miracle Worker) highly enough.
The copy of our file from the old clinic arrived last week, and since then we haven't had a single evening at home. We were also away for the weekend, and DH has driving lessons tonight and tomorrow. But some time this week, we're going to make another copy of our file, fill in all the forms from the XXXX clinic and get the whole lot sent off to them.