Wednesday 26 April

Receptionists killed: 0 (v.g.) Shop assistants eaten: 0 (Excellent)

11am. V. bad start to day. Sorry: best start-to-day ever in whole life. Sometimes seems there is no middle ground between Patricia Hewitt-esque deludedly optimistic government spin and equally ludicrous generalised negativity, esp amongst receptionists, shop assistants etc, who - as if to say, "See? Nothing works and everything is crap!" - take weird triumph in not being able to give you anything you need. Soon will be like Cold War Russia with cheery government broadcasts blaring out how fabulous everything is, while everyone else sits, unrealistically depressed, hurling empty vodka bottles at the TV.

Nightmare morning started when went to Dr Warthead's for monthly check-up before work. Approached desk at which two receptionists continued clicking on their computers as if I wasn't there.

"Excuse me," I eventually ventured. One of them looked up in exasperation, as if I were a homeless beggar asking if she could "spare some change".

"I've got an appointment at 9.10."

She sucked in cheeks as if to say "Dream on, loser," then started tapping at computer again, as though writing a darkly pessimistic contemplative poem.

"Excuse me," I - after a very long time - said again.

"What's the name?"

"Didn't you need the name before?"

"Before what?"

"Before you started looking for it in the computer?"

"It doesn't work like that," she said, then carried on with her poem. Found self sticking fingernails really quite painfully into palms: like belligerent person at airport who ends up jumping over desk and biffing check-in lady.

"Is that it, then?" I said, with forced pleasantry. "Shall I just, like, leave in despair?"

She looked up triumphantly. "There's nothing in the computer."

"Oh, I think you'll find there is," I purred nastily, switching into patronising middle-class media person. "It's my monthly pregnancy check-up. I rang up to confirm it yesterday."

"Oh, it's a pregnancy appointment? You should have said."

"Look! What do you think this is?" I burst out, pointing to protruding pregnant stomach. "If you needed to know if it was a pregnancy appointment, why didn't you ask me? Wasn't it kind of obvious that was at least a possibility? Did you think I was just weirdly fat in one place? Like having fat thumbs? Or fat earlobes?"

She glanced at colleague as if to say "Here's another one," then returned to contemplative poem. Grrr. How do people get away with behaving like this in jobs where are supposed to help other human beings? Does it happen in other countries or just here? Eventually, almost in tears, turned to go, at which evil uber-bitch said, in inexplicable I-told-you-so-voice: "It's here. You can take a seat until you're called."

Next, having sat through Dr Warthead taking only perfunctory interest in pregnancy in favour of enthusing re: Daniel's travel show (meanwhile wondering why she didn't spend some of her 300 grand a year on getting wart cut off privately) turned mobile back on to be invaded by immediate call from mother.

"Ah, there you are, darling. Now listen: when exactly are you going to have this baby?"

"Mother. I've told you when it's due. The rest is up to the baby."

"Oh." Hate this passive aggressive, faintly surprised "oh." of my mother's.

"What," I said, through gritted teeth.

"Oh nothing, no. It's just we were talking about it at Una's Book Club."

"Talking about what?"

"The birth of course, darling, and Merle was saying you'd probably be having a Caesarean..." Who the fuck was Merle? And had they really been sitting round discussing, effectively, my vagina? "... because of your age," - oh God - "And Una's been talking to Barry."

"Who's Barry?

"You know Barry, darling. The doctor! And he said exactly the same thing."

"What?"

"That you'd be having a Caesarean. Wendy did, of course."

"Who's Wendy?"

"You know Wendy! Mavis's daughter! Wendy!"

Held phone away from ear, wanting to light up a cigarette and drink a whole bottle of wine even though not yet 10am.

4pm. Daniel rang up at work asking me to go to his friend Charlie's wedding with him which was a) best thing that ever happened in entire life as proved that Daniel wants to demonstrate that am pregnant girlfriend, and also b) worst possible thing since clearly cannot wear black sweatpants to wedding, therefore must go late-night shopping.

8.30pm. What possessed self to go to Harvey Nichols instead of Topshop/M&S? Wandering hopelessly amongst Roberto Cavalli, Balenciaga etc. (Cannot see word "Balenciaga" without thinking of interview with pre-fallen-from-grace Barbara Amiel, who, asked if ever felt insecure before scary social occasions said, puzzled, "But surely one just puts on one's Balenciaga and goes?")

After successfully avoiding all sales assistants, had finally found two light coat possibilities in upstairs cheaper section when was cornered - actually in a corner - by one, cooing, "Finding everything you're looking for?"

"Have you got these in a 12 or 14?" was forced to say. Girl stretched mouth into discouraging grimace, as if I'd asked if she had any space rockets for 25p. Rather to embarrassment of both of us, turned out coats were 12 and 14 anyway. Then, as tried them on, it started: "Have you put on a lot of weight since you've been pregnant?"

"No!" I lied.

"Oh really?" she said, disbelievingly "Just had a baby myself, actually!" She smoothed her board-like midriff as I struggled to pull coat over bump. "I only put on 17lbs - so I didn't even need to buy new clothes! Now. Wearability?" she went on, adopting the celebrity habit of interviewing herself with questions no one had asked. "You should go for that one." She pointed at the worst one, which looked gross on me. "But then, they don't do a big enough size."

"I think I'll have another little look around," I said, trying to escape.

"I think you'll be lucky to find anything," she sighed, as a parting shot.

You see? Whole day was as good as anything ever has or could have been.