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So am I comparing myself to a pot? Yes, right now I am, although I'm not suggesting that I will be the first person in history to be pregnant forever, so perhaps 'never' is quite a strong word to use. 'Pot' is clearly a suitable comparison though, as you can see by this moment captured by Keith of my giving young Alfie a pep talk, because clearly an unborn child has any concept of birth, and time and the fact that both Keith and I are being hounded every day for news.

I can confidently make a promise here – I will never, EVER again contact a pregnant friend and ask for news because I now understand that while to you it seems like an innocent inquiry made after several days of quietly waiting, multiply that by any number and suddenly the levels of inquiries start to take on the same tone as those seagulls in Finding Nemo … "MINE, MINE, MINE, MINE". In addition I would just like to apologise for anyone I have inadvertently hounded in the past.

Just to make things entirely clear, we will make it known when Alfie makes an appearance, really, there is no need to ask. It has taken us close to 2 years to reach this point, and Keith is caught in what he has described as a never ending Christmas Eve at the moment. If he were more excited I think I might be forced to sedate him for his own safety. He is likely to take out a full page advert in the Times to announce the birth, along with a sideshow of dancing girls and possibly even a sky writer. Feel confident, there will be aliens in far flung planets who will know when Alfie is born, there is absolutely no need to worry that you will miss out.

I labour this point because unlike my mum, who apparently burst into tears every time she was subjected to the calls of well wishers, I am just plum getting annoyed, which in actual fact is probably contributing to the lack of Alfie action, despite a week of pre-labour symptoms. Turns out that a man called Michel Odent (he who has recently sparked so much brouhaha about having men at births) also wrote some time back about the impact of adrenaline on birth, and in fact on whether the entire modern phenomenon of stress is down to the way in which the third stage of labour is managed in modern obstetrics. It's worth a read if you have the time and inclination.

In order to keep my mind off the lack of labour, and also to stop myself cleaning the house for the fifth time in as many days, I have allowed myself to become addicted to Fish Wrangler on Facebook. I was invited to play by Keith, and seemed like an excellent way to bond over a common interest, although clearly my darling husband didn't count on the fact that a woman sitting at home bored out of her skull all day wasn't going to take long to wrack up more points and catches than someone in the throws of spring cleaning a workshop.

Apparently this is not cricket and I am to stop fishing forthwith. 

See, nobody needs Alfie to arrive more than we do right now. Preferably before Facebook becomes cited in our divorce proceedings!!

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