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And this, punkin, is why one should write one’s posts in Word first, before one puts them into blogger. Sometimes they get eaten.

We now return to our regularly scheduled programming.

Your mother and I, punkin, are pretty impatient people. Borne along on the wave of consumerism and instant gratification, we are used to, on identifying an itch to be scratched (primarily of an audiovisual nature), trucking on down to JB and getting what we want.

This is not, however, the case with you. With you, we have discovered, you have your own timetable, which is both entirely unknown to us, and upon which we are entirely unable to have any influence whatsoever.

There was something in my brain, punkling, telling me that when your mother went and saw Dr Pete yesterday, that he was going to take one look at her and say 'my god, we have to get you to the labour ward, STAT!'

He did nothing of the sort.

Pete apparently looked at your mum, had a bit of a squeeze and a feel, and told your mum that his earlier estimate of your size had probably been slightly overzealous. Pete says that his initial assessment of your size had been based on a growth spurt, and that you aren't now growing nearly as fast as you were previously. As far as I can tell, this indicates that, whilst you have 'docked', and you're lying in the correct position for the birth to begin, you're not considering making a move anytime soon.

This is both good news and bad news. Bad news for your impatient parents, who want you to be here NOW NOW NOW, although this is likely a desire that they will reflect on later as being frivolous in the extreme. Good news for you.

Of course, having said all that, and having been reading those two fabulous tomes "What to Expect When You're Expecting", and "The Complete Book of Pregnancy and Childbirth" with reckless abandon in the last few days, I can safely say this:

No-one has any idea.

Not the foggiest.

There's no way to tell, within a day or a week or even an hour, when labour is going to start. It's just a waiting game, punctuated by me leaping four feet into the air every time your mum says she has a backache, or moans, or rolls over in bed.

Frankly, it’s embarrasing, so hurry up.

Love you.