The process of trying to conceive a child makes me feel like one:

Firstly, there’s throwing the toys out of my pram, getting out, stamping around and chanting things like “Life’s not fair,” and “If Karen / Julian / Britney Spears has got one, why can’t I have one?”  Bawl. Yell. Stomp, “Sorry that my rattle hit you in the head, I didn’t mean to throw it with such force.”

Then there’s the bit where I literally cry myself dry; like a baby when it screams and screams and then stops suddenly, like it’s hit a wall of valium.  Having come home most nights last week and shed water from my eyes at varying pressures and speeds, this week I am as calm as Buddha on a calm day.  I come home from work at a reasonable time, base my meals round whole grains and vegetables, have hot baths and dive under the bed covers with only a pile of Mills & Boon for company.  Even if I wanted to cry, I couldn’t.  Last week dehydrated me.

Then there’s the love of, and reliance on, drinking out of a bottle at every available opportunity. The green glass kind, naturally.

And finally, there’s the bit when you go into the test centre and your husband is marked for the quality of his sperm.  Poor motility.  What is that, C minus sperm?  Good motility.  B plus sperm?  An A minus scrotum?  I thought we’d left all that behind with the Maths homework.

Our unborn child, wherever it’s sitting – on a cloud or some fence made of chocolate – is probably saying, “That woman really needs to grow a pair before I pay her a visit” to which I would say “Speak to your father.  His are A plus. I hope.”