People keep asking me if I have a Birth Plan. I do. It is this:
1. Go to hospital.
2. Have baby.
3. Er, that's it.
I have been offered the option of having a home birth, but this doesn't really appeal. I'd rather be where all the drugs and doctors and surgeons are, in a nice clean hospital bed. I imagine being hooked up to every available monitor with dozens of wires like in The Matrix, with computers keeping track of the baby's every movement and feeding live updates to my Facebook page.
I can't say I fancy the alternative much, i.e. lying on my DFS sofa screaming while Pete runs a Stanley knife under the tap.
People also keep asking me whether I'm getting excited yet. As I've been telling them, it's a bit like when you're a kid waiting for Christmas - there's that same sense of thrilling anticipation and joyful impatience, but with a twist.
You know you're going to have this amazing day where you receive this fantastic gift, but at the same time, you know you're going to have to spend the morning of that day being repeatedly stabbed in the genitals before you can open your presents.
Roll on 24th June.