In the Club

Lunch with Jon F, Boyd, The Future Mrs Boyd and Baby Boyd, who is only six months old. It was really lovely to see how happy they are, how gorgeous the baby is and how well TFM Boyd looks, even when covered in white sick.

Then it was off to Chloë's mince pie party. Everyone there seemed to be either pregnant, recently pregnant or keen to know when I was planning to get pregnant. Especially Dan K and Miriam, who had Josephine just last year.

"Go on," said Dan K. "Just do it. You'll love it."

Miriam leaned back on the sofa and fixed me with a solemn gaze. "I think you should wait," she said.

I shrugged and knocked back yet another mug of mulled cranberry juice. At least there's no chance of this baby getting any urinary infections.

Baby Blues

Off to Brighton for Lilley's stag do. A new discovery today: it's easier to lie about not drinking if you secretly buy a bottle of non-alcoholic lager, like Becks Blue, and hold it so no one can see the label.

The only drawback to this ingenious ploy is that you have to drink Becks Blue. I can only assume it is called this because after two sips you slip into a deep depression at the realisation you're going to spend the next eight months drinking carbonated urine.

I left the stag do early. I wasn't sure the presence of a pregnant woman was going to make the rest of the night go with that much of a swing.

Not So Fierce Now

Cried at an episode of America's Next Top Model. This is really happening.

Dance Like Everyone's Watching

I thought that once I got pregnant and stopped drinking, my life would change completely - that I'd become calmer, stay in more, and become less prone to embarassing myself in public on a grand scale.

So how come last night I ended up dancing live on stage to Salt 'n' Pepa's Push It with Louis Spence?

Vera, Chuck and Dave

Met up with my parents today. They are very excited about the baby, though Dad seems to be struggling with what its arrival signifies about the stage he has reached in its life.

"I don't want it to call me Grandad," he said, frowning. "I'm not old enough to be a Grandad."

My father is 64.

"Well," I said, "What do you want it to call you?"

Dad thought long and hard.

"Mister Jim," he said.

I had a sudden vision of my father sitting on a Raj-era verandah, being presented with a drink on a tray by a small child in a loincloth: "Here is your gin, Mister Jim."

I think we'll stick with Grandad.