Monday 22 May

2pm. Hurrah! Getting very close now, and all going marvellously! Baby equipment (ordered off website by Magda on Daniel's credit card) all arrived today while he was at work. Cannot believe how lovely it all is: Moses basket, nappies and little outfits. Also, though, incomprehensible nappy bucket with roll of polythene bags, which doesn't fit anywhere, and Bugaboo pram (hurrah!) which seems to be flat, which is odd. Must ring Magda to thank her and... Gaah! Telephone.

Was my mother, with another of her "feelings updates" about Heather Mills McCartney. Is as if, as long as Heather was married to Paul, Mum reined herself in, but now some maniacal fury has been unleashed: "It's just all about publicity, isn't it? Getting picked up in Slovenia in a rusty Fiat Panda! Why doesn't she go in a private jet like normal celebrities?"

"Mum. One minute you're slagging her off for being a gold-digger and next minute you're complaining she's not travelling flashily enough."

"But you know what I mean, darling, She's just always after the main chance, isn't she? That girl would have been nothing with two legs."

"Mother!" I gasped in horror. "You can't say things like that."

"I can say anything I like to my own daughter and it's just what everyone's thinking. Anyway, how's the baby coming along? Any sign yet? Have you thought about cod-liver oil?"

"He's not due until next week."

There was an icy silence: "He?"

Oh, fuck.

"He?"

"Mum..."

"You told me quite clearly you didn't know what sex the baby was."

"I know, I just suddenly got the feeling it's a boy!" I trilled.

"Bridget," she said, dangerously. Una has been knitting for five months and she's been forced to go for yellow."

"What did you think about Madonna's crucifixion?" I gabbled, making a desperate decision that even braving Madonna/self older-mother physique comparisons was better than blaming session for Una being stuck with yellow. Proved to be excellent ploy and even managed to get her off phone by agreeing that the crucifixion per se was fine but Madonna's outfit was fighting the cross.

Right, am going to call Magda... gaaah! Telephone.

2.30pm. Was Magda herself, with oddly cold tone: "Oh, you're there."

"Where did you expect me to be?"

"Still in hospital. I haven't heard a thing. I assumed you'd somehow missed me off the list."

"What list?"

"The list of people to tell. I suppose Jude and Shazzer were the first to hear, even though it's me that's supported you all the way through, but Jude and Shazzer are more fun and exciting, aren't they?"

"Magda - the baby hasn't been born. I was just about to call and thank you for organising the stuff. He isn't even due until next week."

"No, Bridget, it's today."

3pm. Oh dear. Seems may have got confused re: dates. Whole thing has crept up on me like some mad deadline. After disaster of childcare session with Daniel, couldn't face birthing classes with lesbians clasping me from behind on beanbags, and now realise baby may be overdue and have no real sense of what to do. Magda says must start by looking at list of what to take to hospital.

3.30pm. Goody. Have found hospital list. Right. "Suggestions for your Labour Bag: 1. Copies of your birthing plan. [What birthing plan? Only plan is: go to hospital, take as many drugs as possible, have baby.] 2. Boiled sweets. 3. Tennis ball [eh?] 4. Breast pads. 5. Your favourite brand of maxi pads. 6. Disposable knickers, or several of your oldest pairs..."

Yeurgh. Whole thing is completely disgusting. Am not going to hospital with "several of my oldest pairs" of knickers. Completely flies in the face of everything have ever been taught about hospitals and knickers. And what do they mean "Your favourite brand of maxi pads"? Is weirdly deluded, like advert for Bodyform on TV years ago when girl flung open window and sang at top of voice, "Waaaaaaah! Body-fo-orm. Bodyform for meeeeeee!", as if carried away with enthusiasm for her favourite maxi-pad brand. That is the girl they want for this list, not me.

Must think of name for baby also. Ginger Spice says she called hers Bluebell because she kept seeing bluebells before the birth. At this rate, baby is going to end up being called Maxi Pad Cleaver.

Midnight. Had not really thought through how Daniel was going to react to invasion of baby merchandise into his sleek, masculine, tropical-hardwood-meets-suede/leather-neutrals interior. Initially, he seemed fine, only suggesting that it might be better to put the nappy bucket in the bathroom rather than beside the Bang & Olufsen sound system.

I fell asleep on the sofa but was woken later by Daniel, wild-eyed, hissing: "Bridget. Wake up. Scotland Yard are following me. They've put cotton wool in the trees." He darted over to the kitchen, came back beaming, as if wanting approval, with a bottle of Tabasco. "This is a present for you and the baby." Then the phone rang. It was Jude, drunk.

"Just ringing to see how the golden girl is. Oh, it's all right for Bridget, isn't it? Pregnant at the 11th hour..."

"Is it Scotland Yard?" Daniel gabbled. "They're after me, aren't they?"

"No, Daniel, it's Jude."

"...and then she snares the wealthy, bachelor, hotshot TV presenter..." Jude slurred on. Daniel was now loping, Caliban-like, over to the window. "...who miraculously turns from fuckwit to doting father-to-be," continued Jude, as Daniel, twitching, muttered: "It's not cotton wool they've put in the trees, it's make-up remover pads!"

"...totally reformed character. Yes, it's all right for Bridget..."

At this, Daniel caught sight of the baby-mobile hanging by the TV, screamed and jumped right over the back of the sofa.

"Jude, shut up," I hissed. "Daniel's either lost his mind or taken hallucinogenic drugs or something. Can you sober up quick and get here?"