Thirty-eight weeks pregnant. And that’s enough.

So tomorrow is Friday. Hmmm, what shall I do?

I know. LET’S GO HAVE A BABY.

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Tomorrow I am being induced because of the diabetes, because the scans say the baby is getting too big.

The registrar two weeks ago reassured me in his lilting Nigerian accent, ‘no need to worry, you can go to forty weeks before we will book you in for induction. Come in for a sweep when you turn forty weeks,’ he said, making a large circle in the air with his hand, ‘and if that doesn’t work we’ll break your waters forty-eight hours later,’ he continued, making a violent jabbing motion. I hoped he reserves those gestures for women who have already given birth and know what the hell those hand motions mean.

The consultant on Monday had other ideas. ‘You need to deliver that baby this week. Can you come in tomorrow?’

‘Er no,’ I said. ‘I have three other children to arrange childcare for.’

My mother is on holiday in South Africa. My sister is away skiing. My best friend is away in London. My other best friend is in Scotland. My neighbours are going to a funeral.

So Matthew will have to look after the children.

And I will be attempting to squeeze something the size of a watermelon out of somewhere very much smaller than a watermelon.

Alone.

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