… And I’ve had enough. In fact, I’m counting down the days until I can serve Mini Madam with an eviction notice without being seen to be willing on prematurity. The thought of another 9 weeks (2+ months!) of swollen hips, uncontrollable moodiness, and cries of “Ooompf” when I accidentally stomach crunch my little girl, seems like nothing short of punishment.

It’s taking sooo long, even Dexter needed reminding.

Now all my final appointments are booked, there’s nothing to do but wait. In a few short weeks, we’ll discover how this birth plan is going to play out and whether April will see #Labour tweets and unsightly pictures of me flailing around on a birthing ball from inside the Royal Berks Hospital.

My once pert little bump is now a sagging lump like an old sofa cushion riding low on my pelvis, and I’m now kicking myself that I didn’t undergo hypnotherapy to kick my cherry bakewell habit in the first trimester. This has bought on a relatively new phenomena for me - stretchmarks. In fact my belly now looks like the glaze on a loaf of tiger bread. No amount of smothering myself in Bio Oil seems to shift them and I’m slowly facing up to the fact that my bikini days are now definitely over.

SPD and sciatica continue to plague me at each at every waking moment. I’m getting by on around 4 hours sleep at night and as many naps as Dexter will allow. I’m definitely struggling to switch off as the pressure to get our 52 name shortlist down to 10 heats up. This insomnia is real problem and I’m positively hideous to be around. I’ve caught Craig camping out in the kitchen a few times and his eyes will widen in fear if I go within 3 metres of him.

When I’m not being as evil and cynical as Katie Hopkins, I’m usually crying at something ridiculous on the television. Coverage of the floods on the news, the sheer offensiveness of Mister Maker’s theme tune, or the GB curling team at the Sochi Winter Olympics… yes curling. What has my life come to?

Preparations for baby’s arrival are still woefully underfunded. With not one but two insurance claims put in this week (one a result of a nasty car accident) we’re berating ourselves for not having attacked the January sales with more ferocity. She now has a bath, and all the furniture she needs, and I’m delighted that she’ll be spending her first few month in an NCT bedside crib courtesy of Bednest, but she’s looking set to be a right exhibitionist as we haven’t bought her a single sleepsuit or babygrow. My breastfeeding ambitions better go to plan too as there are no bottles in the kitchen cupboard either > This is all a little woe-is-me isn’t it? We’re not as poor as I make out, but it certainly feels like it sometimes.

I was very close to reneging on the No Pink rule this week too. Having had my head turned by a seriously cute Laura Ashley print, I very nearly abandoned the grey and yellow nursery theme in favour of chintzy flowers. Thankfully Craig caught me just as the mouse cursor hovered over the checkout button and he gave me a stern talking to. I can now safely say I’m back on track and thinking rationally again.

So that’s it. This is the person I am at 31 weeks pregnant. Please tell me it gets quicker from here on in - Please, please, please.