When, three months ago, I gave up caffeine for The Cause, it was a daily battle – a Herculean effort to unpeel myself from the mattress each morning with only the prospect of camomile tea to keep me from going back there. A few caffeine enhanced green teas and one hundred or so early nights later, I’m only just coming to terms with never seeing My Dear Coffee again.

When I gave up booze (in the kind of quantities that actually make you happy) it was all I could do not to sniff hairspray, suck the brandy out of a chocolate liqueur or, at my most desperate, suck on a grape just to eek out a drop of something vaguely tasting like alcohol to relax my poor, socialising bones. Several visits to the cinema and a change in social circle later, I’ve just about come to terms with the absence of being brilliantly pissed and oblivious to all life’s woes.

And even when I upped my intake of vitamins and downed my intake of saturated fats and sugars, I had the immediate advantage of being able to see the whites of my eyes for the first time. Abstinence and clean living has been a battle but it’s one I’m on the road to winning…

But hot baths, my friend, are another thing entirely. They are the one sweet vice I have doggedly held on to since my life became a set of Reproductive Issues. I am a self confessed, signed up member of The Water Baby Party. I choose the sea bed over a chat in the pub every time. I will have two, sometimes three baths a day, possibly a swim and a shower if I’m treating myself. But it’s not just any old water I enjoy – I can take or leave puddles – it’s the hot, steaming muscle-hugging variety that really floats my boat; it’s the raging heat of a late night bubble bath that really delivers the release from a day stressing about life and reproduction.

Until DH delivered the shocking news – backed up empirical evidence gathered online – that submerging my bones in anything over 102 degrees could put the kybosh on anything that was trying to “make” itself in my body. He decreed the end of hot baths in the two week period following ovulation. Disaster. After several nights of arguing about how crazy a theory this was, that I’d never heard of such a thing and I don’t bathe over that temperature anyway, DH crept into my bathing sanctum unawares and plunged a thermometer into the hot, luxurious, muscle-hugging water. It read 107 degrees. He was silent. I was silent. As I turned on the tap, cold water was ceremoniously poured on yet another one of life’s pleasures.

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