Dear Lucy,

Peter and I have settled in here in America. It's strange, the little differences between cultures. All the brands at the grocery are different - it takes forever to find the right boxes and cans. Even the names of things are all wrong. They call biscuits cookies here, and crisps are chips, and chips are "French fries." I don't see what's French about them, except that they're terrible. I miss proper chips.

Wish these nasty cravings would pass. First scones, and now chips. Why can't Americans make any proper food? Even the tea here is inferior.

Peter's studies are going well, I hear. I hope you and Edmund are keeping up too.

It's not really a lie, technically. Not this time. Maybe he's not attending university, but he is studying... studying the development of babies. And how to assemble cots. After the first two tries he finally agreed to read the instructions. Men.

I'm sorry I haven't been up for writing lately. A bout of nausea has been a bit of a problem recently, but I'm better now. I've taken up smoking, and it clears my head nicely. I hope you're doing better than I am.

If I could only get my hands on some Drexedrine, I could be back to normal. But Peter insists a doctor would want to see me again, a follow-up, and then how would we explain this growing? He's right. I know. But maybe we could still go to the hospital for the births... Would it be worth the risk of scrutiny? Will a home birth be safe? We haven't been able to find any new midwives... If our estimations are right, we've got three weeks left. I feel like a whale. How is my body supposed to keep growing for three weeks? How do two humans even fit in here?

I've listened to a great deal of radio lately. It's nice to keep up with the rest of the world. It seems this peace will last.

The stories are too exciting for an expecting mother, but Peter loves listening to a good football match. Some things haven't changed, I suppose.

America isn't as exciting as you'd expect, really. I haven't got much else to share. If I can convince him, Peter might add a letter of his own to the post. I promise to write again soon.

What else is there to say when my life is all bedrest, radio and pregnancy concerns?

With love from Susan.