When a lady queuing alongside me glanced at my bump today and started with “wow, you’re really pregnant. My friend had a baby last week…” I knew I should dump my intended purchases and waddle away as fast as my puffy feet would carry me.

But, oh! the path to finding a suitable button-front nightie that didn’t look like it was destined to be worn by an 80 year old had been a long one, and there was 20% off, so I held my ground (I qualify with “suitable”, because I DID find a nightie with spectacularly easy boob-access in another shop, but it was covered in red sequins and said “Santa’s Saucy Helper”, and I’m just not convinced that will support the Wholesome Mother image I’m hoping to portray whilst staying at Birthcare).
Thank you, lady in the queue at Farmers who told me the tale of her friend who laboured for ages, like, days or something, and then the baby came out feet first. I’ll pop that story in my memory bank alongside the one about the lady from Countdown’s friend who didn’t know she was having twins until two babies came out, and I’ll sleep well tonight.