Last night, Jack and I drank three pints of ale in the pub. This morning, I woke up feeling great and ready to face the day. I received a scrumptious cheque in the post from the kind people who are publishing the Dutch edition of my second novel, and I was all set to drive to the hell that is Reading and pay it in at HSBC (which, incidentally, sponsors Great British Dramas, of which my overdraft is one, along with the slightly more interesting Pride and Prejudice).


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This month, I have a whole new Aid to Conception. Its aim is to banish obstructive thoughts I have about my body not being good enough to grow a baby in. This is not, I hasten to add, the result of a perenially battered self esteem or anything dark like that. It's just a general feeling of disbelief about the whole reproductive process, probably stemming from the fact that I was never much into science at school, and found fairy stories far easier to believe in than sperm-meets-egg or everything-is-made-up-of-atoms stories.


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I can't remember the exact figure, but I believe men are supposed to think about sex for approximately 9.5 of every 10 seconds. (NB. When I 'supposed' I don't mean 'supposed-as-in-obliged'. I mean, 'supposed-as-in-inevitable.')

In a similar, though possibly less erotic fashion, I now spend 9.5 of every ten seconds thinking about sperm.

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I’ve decided that having a baby is a stupid idea. I am far too poor and far too irresponsible. Last week, I forgot to feed my Facebook puppy and it died. I was secretly happy about this. Feeding it was a goddamn palaver, and all I had to do was throw cartoon dog biscuits at it.

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As soon as we get home, I leave Jack outside bemoaning the length of the grass and the asparagus that has gone to seed in our absence, and I hit Google. 'Am I pregnant?'

I'm directed to forums full of fifteen-year-old girls. They have been informed by their schools' Moral and Social Education teachers that if they ever go to a party lasting beyond 10pm, they will, inevitably, come home pregnant.

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To be pregnant will mean that, nine months from now, I will give birth to a child with a defective brain and severe personality and behaviour disorders, due to going on a massive bender shortly after conception.


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Since we got here, we've walked about ten miles a day. I never used to be a walker. In fact, I never used to leave the house if I could help it. I have, however, always liked the countryside, though more as something to be looked at and admired from behind a window, than as something to get deeply and messily involved in.


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Having failed my ovulation test, and having not achieved some new level of deep spiritual awareness about a newly-created life inside me, I decided this morning that I definitely wasn't pregnant so spent the day on the beach getting sloshed.

This, I confess, is one of my favourite ways to pays the time. I do it often. Not shamefully often, but often enough. I consider my inability to stop drinking after one glass of wine an inherited trait, much like being short. Asking me to give it up would be like expecting me to acquire supermodel levels of tallness when I am already fully grown.


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So now I am waiting - waiting for a sign to let me know that conception has occurred. Certainly, nothing as alien and momentous as the beginning of life could happen in my own body without me being alerted to it.

I think I am waiting for a noise, or an explosion, or perhaps some God-like voice speaking a language I've never heard before, whispering that I am With Child. Then I will run my hands knowingly over my belly, my face suffused with serenity and devotion. I'll be deeply aware of every newly-made cell dividing and growing, unknowable to all but me. This is going to be the quietest, the sweetest romance.

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According to the instructions on the pack, today is the day I need to start ovulation testing.

I am not the sort of woman who takes tests lightly. I prefer to pass them with flying colours.

I shut myself in the bathroom and stare at this odd plastic stick I am expected to - well, to pee on. What I am aiming for is two dark purple lines. That's it. That's the pass mark, the A*, the badge that will allow me to take my place amongst the creme de la creme of fertile ladies.

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