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I’d had this idea floating around for a couple of years that we really should knuckle down and have a baby sometime soon. Married for 4 years, stable-ish jobs, all partied out.

Then suddenly, as our friends start to drop like flies into the abyss that is ‘thirties’, everyone wanted in on the action. Girls who previous swore they had zero interest in kids were telling me IN CONFIDENCE that they’d started taking folic acid, picked out baby names and were scheduling the removal of their implants. (I’m not even sure what that last one means, but it sounds pretty painful).

So suddenly the conversation that we’d been shoving to the bottom of the pile under which order we should watch these box sets and what to do next Easter holidays became Priority One. After all, it was my idea. I wasn’t going to sit back and watch my friends procreate when I’d always been the one who was going to have babies.

Yep, my main motivation for deciding to get knocked up is jealousy. With just a dash of wanting a year off work, and the thought that it would probably be a really good idea to have an excuse to cut back on the alcohol...