I mean, when I think about it, what's more important? Clothes - or the miracle of new life?

If my writing comes to a halt, I head to the shops: I find them very inspirational. And if I get into real trouble with my plot, I go out for a pizza with my husband.

Never give up on something you really want. However impossible things seem, there's always a way.

I hurl the glass teapot to the ground. we both stare at it, stunned. "it was supposed to break," I explain after a pause, " and that was going to signify that yes, I would throw something away . If I knew it wasn't right for me.

I adore all Agatha Christie's books and turn to them whenever I'm ill or need cheering up.

I can do this, I tell myself firmly. I can be attracted to him. It's just a matter of self control and possibly also getting very drunk. So I lift my glass and take several huge gulps. I can feel the bubbles surging into my head, singing happily "I'm going to be a millionaire's wife! I'm going to be a millionaire's wife!" And when I look back at Tarquin, he already looks a bit more attractive. Alcohol is obviously going to be the key to our marital status.

We both gaze down at my swollen tummy for a while. I still can't quite get my head round the fact that there's a baby inside my body. Which has got to come out... somehow. OK, let's not go there. There's still time for them to invent something.