My midwives came over to discuss my birth plan and they were so calming and soothing that I emerged from their visit thinking I could star in an advert advocating the pros of natural childbirth.

This was before sneaking into my newly invented "Jen snacks" cupboard and stuffing four mini Mars bars down my throat – I still felt good after that, but less like wholesome-natural-delivery-mum.

The plan at the moment is to labour at home, then transfer to the hospital for a water birth (so very Gisele of me, I know).


I am also aware the plan is very tenuous and that any little thing (meconium in my breaking waters, having to be induced, etc.) means that the water birth idea is out the window, so I'm not wedded to it and am totally ok with accepting intervention if I need it.

I am in much better spirits than last week. Turns out that being treated like an invalid by friends and family and not expected to do anything is actually kind of amazing. I've done the whole not-leaving-the-house-ever-and-watching-telly-all-day-every-day thing before (otherwise known as the year I got my master's degree) and no one seemed that impressed when I told them I'd watched five series of Lost in a matter of weeks in lieu of studying for exams.
Now, I tell people I spent the weekend watching True Blood, Mad Men, The Hills, an NHS breastfeeding DVD my midwives gave me and every show that features a pregnant person that I can find (it's as if I'm wishfully thinking that the more labours I witness, the better my own will be), as well as reading, leaving the house to go to the market, walk the dog, or occasionally swim, and people gasp and say, 'Wow, you're doing so much. You should rest.'

Before the last few weeks of idleness, I should also point out that the bump and I have engaged in our fair share of cultural activities beyond the small screen – I've taken my belly to see everything from The Tempest to Legally Blonde (OK, maybe that one doesn't quite count as high culture).

I feel super accomplished this week because the elusive "nursery" finally came into existence yesterday. Unfortunately, for us, nursery means the spare room which has to house most of our clothing, but now it also has a changing table and a cot bed and all of the other necessary (and excessive) baby paraphernalia, and instead of resembling a mosh pit of unworn clothes (which it has essentially been since we moved in six months ago), it's now a calm, lovely space (and more importantly, the door finally opens!)

I did a massive spring clean of my wardrobe, which I may regret in the long run. (Tossing clothes when you can't fit into anything at all seems like a very purifying idea at the time but I'm sure when I realise I have no jeans left in three months' time, I'll be furious with myself. Good excuse to keep up the ice cream diet though.) I also sneakily used the opportunity to rid my partner of some of his more unfortunate wardrobe items, which he either hasn't noticed or is too terrified to confront me about (I am pretty scary these days, and frankly, I wouldn't want to mess with me, either).

Also, at the moment, he's probably too distracted to think about a missing polo shirt – and who wouldn't be with a crazed pregnant person screaming, 'It's going to happen TODAY. I can feel it!'

It's been five days and I have yet to be right.