5pm. Daniel's flat. Baby has not come. Angelina Jolie's baby has come whilst own has not. Feel like toddler sent to sit on potty and failing to produce poo, while adults wait, increasingly frostily, outside bathroom door. Seem to spend entire day fielding calls from eg Magda, saying must have it induced or there won't be any fluid and baby will die; or Woney saying don't have it induced or baby will die; or my mother saying Julie Enderbury had all hers early but then Julie was 10 years younger wasn't she? - all with undercurrent of blame as if baby is mere figment of own imagination, and attention-seeking device. Oh, here we go, phone again.

"Oh hello, darling, guess what? Una and I are going on safari to Namibia!!" Was momentarily nonplussed, unsure what new form of passive aggressive mother torture this represented. More rubbing in re: Angelina? Mother so bored by waiting that desert safari with no waterholes more interesting than birth of first grandchild? "Yes! Angelina's really put this Namibia on the tourist map. In actual fact, Una was saying, 'Why doesn't Bridget have hers in Grafton Underwood!'" Mum let out a tinkling laugh followed by the kind of pause which suggested a ruthless purpose behind her soi- disant "casual quip".

"Mother, me having a baby in Grafton Underwood is hardly going to 'put it on the tourist map'. And anyway, there isn't a hospital in Grafton Underwood."

"You don't have to have the baby in a hospital, darling. I had you at home. You were 10 days early!" Grrrr.

"Angelina had it in a hospital," I burst out, cunningly.

"That was different, darling. That was darkest Africa. This is Grafton Underwood. Anyway, I know nobody's heard of you , but this Daniel's on the television, isn't he? And of course, I'm quite the local celebrity since..."

"Mum, I've got to go."

"Anyway, what about names? You know 'Shiloh' is 'heaven' spelt backwards. Isn't that super?"

"Super," I said dully, writing "SHILOH" on the car seat manual. "No it isn't. It's Holish."

"Don't be silly, darling. It's not Polish. It's Namibian. Have you tried that cod liver oil yet?"

"Mum, I'm going. Bye."

Returned to staring blankly at the multi-lingual/cultural manual, consisting entirely of drawings that look, as Daniel observed, like a Seventies Swedish sex manual. Huh. Fat chance. Daniel and I spent most of last night in garage, fighting, purple-faced, with seat, hissing "go to page 45 fig B" at each other. Seems ridiculously premature to be fitting seat when have not even got baby, but apparently you cannot even bring baby back from hospital without car seat. Am going to end up like Britney Spears, returning from birth with baby lurching on knee in front seat, head lolling everywhere.

At least, though, Daniel has been shamed into good behaviour since ignominious incident last week - which he blames on impending fatherhood panic - when started behaving so bizarrely that had to get Jude to come round late at night.

By the time she arrived he'd disappeared. After searching cupboards/ roof terrace etc we concluded that he had gone loping out into the night like werewolf or King Kong figure.

"What shall I do?" I wailed.

"Go to sleep."

"Shouldn't I ring the police?"

"What? And provide the sort of witness the police are so lacking with Kate Moss, to shop your baby's father for taking drugs seconds before the birth?"

"We don't know it was drugs."

"Bridge," said Jude. "How did you get to your age and end up so naive? A grown man hiding behind the sofa from a baby's mobile? Claiming Scotland Yard had put make-up remover pads in the trees? He's an arse. Go to sleep."

Went to sleep with Jude sitting on the end of the bed, armed with a golf club. When I woke up, as always do these days, at 6am, she was snuggled next to me like the baby I am failing to have. Next there was a key in the lock, the bedroom door burst open and Daniel appeared, covered in soil and beaming. Jude and I sat bolt upright, Jude pulling the duvet up to our necks. "Ding dong! Ladies!" smirked Daniel, "Mind if I join you?" - at which Jude whipped out the golf club.

"How dare you," she hissed, "behave so fucking irresponsibly on the day when your baby's actually due?" But Daniel was already darting over to the window.

"Look at that, Jones," he said, gesturing expansively at the river. "How beautiful is that? The misty morning light twinkling on the mud flats..."

"He's still out of it," muttered Jude, furious. "Fucking idiot."

"Where've you been?" I said.

"Jones, I had the most beautiful, beautiful night. I saw the baby's face in a leaf in the Chelsea Hospital."

"Has he got a shrink?" said Jude, out of the side of her mouth. "Yes," I ventriloquist's-dummied back.

"What's his name?"

"Irvine McGuire."

"OK, keep him talking. I'm going to call him and we'll drive Daniel there and dump him. This isn't the sort of crap you need to be dealing with."

"Oh and Jones..."

As Jude slid out of the room, Daniel fell to his knees, dropping his head, then looked up, eyes shining like an X-Factor contestant explaining why she was going to be the next winner. "I've talked to God. He says it's going to be fine with the car seat."

"Wow. That's... that's great!!!!" I trilled , grinning maniacally, at which Daniel's rapt expression darkened with suspicion.

"Are you humouring me?"

Upshot was, Daniel was packed off to his shrink, and returned to the flat, penitent to say the least and resolving to get the car seat installed - a resolve which, though failing to yield results, has never weakened since......... Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh. Oh my God. I think the baby's coming.