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I'm not usually one to take any notice of our worryingly popular tabloids and certainly would never compliment them by buying one, but they do get left lying around in odd places and I can seldom resist a flick through. It's the same morbid curiosity that makes us look at the aftermath of a car crash as we drive past, however much we don't want to.
Over the weekend this meant seeing a photograph of some WAG or other, five months pregnant and already looking as if she had a Zeppelin under her jumper. As I glanced down at my own near-flat middle, I didn't know whether to feel smug or envious.
I settled for relief at not being married to a Premier League footballer, most of whom seem to think chastity is a mispronounciation of Chester City and that monogamy is a dark wood.
Coincidentally, two friends both had their weddings on Saturday, neither of which I was able to attend. Which is probably just as well, because the cake wouldn't have stood an ice cube's chance in the Sahara the way my pregnancy cravings and appetite are persisting.
Neither of the ceremonies were in this country, and although invitations and airline tickets to both were received, a busy few days kept both me and The Bump rooted in Brighton, where in the city centre the first Christmas decorations have been strung up across North Street. As, indeed, should be whomever is responsible for them, and not merely because there's still a sixth of the year between now and the tide of Yule.
These seasonal banners straddle the road at regular intervals, and look like threadbare fishing nets with a few token lights attached surrounding a child's drawing of Santa. One can safely say they'd have been better advised spending ten quid in Poundland, or not to have bothered at all.
But as usual, commercial promotions are out of synch with the calendar. George at Asda will still sell you a bikini whilst only just deciding that perhaps gloves and scarves should be given some retail space. Festive tat is creeping onto more and more shelves, including groanworthy tubes of 'Merry Pringles'. It must be just a matter of time before chocolate eggs make their appearance.
I'm not sure when Easter falls next year, but the stork will make his delivery before the Easter Bunny. Remember, won't you, that the clocks go back this Hallowe'en weekend; with all the above swirling around, you'd be forgiven for forgetting what time of year it actually is...
The onset of autumn means many things; leaves crunching underfoot, gloves and hats finally appearing in the shops a week after we first needed them; biting northerly winds; rapidly shortening daylight hours; and my husband constantly looking at the calendar and remarking on how long it isn't until the baby is born.
He has a point. November is almost upon us, and when it is we'll be counting down through fewer months than have passed. The exact date of conception is not an absolute, although we can narrow it down to one week in June when we were together in Monte Carlo, and that's about as much detail as I'm going to divulge on that most romantic of stopovers, thank you very much.
And now, at last, I am starting to show. It is, to be frank, about time. When people ask how far gone I am (a horrible phrase which sounds more like an enquiry into one's current level of drunkeness) and I state the dates, the reaction is usually a look of disbelieving astonishment.
In truth it's not rare for a pregnancy not to show until it's some way advanced, and there have even been cases of women giving birth without even knowing they were expecting. But I want it to show, so that I can glance down at The Bump and actually see something there. And anyway, it also guarantees a seat on the bus.
Amazingly, it does also, genuinely, give me the right to pee in a police officer's helmet. I'd always assumed that this was one of those myths, but a simple bit of research ascertained that this most quirky of laws does indeed still exist. It does somewhat overlook the mutual embarrassment factor, but in Brighton you're never more than a toilet roll's throw from a pub or a cafe or somewhere else with a convenient convenience.
My husband, may his stock always rise (and it certainly did in Monaco), has now taken to patting my stomach when we slink into bed at night. It's things like that which bring a lump to my throat; completely natural reflex moments that demonstrate how much his paternal instincts are kicking in.
The other day, he sent me a text to say he was on his way home. It began, 'Hello both of you.' I filled up.
And then went into the kitchen and filled up with custard. Not the craving-satisfying quick-fix tins bought in bulk from Asda, but real honest-to-goodness home-made custard. Well, every special occasion demands to be marked...
Whilst making my mind up between the many indulgent delights in a high-street bakery, I overheard a conversation between a mother and her young child.
'There are three colours in a rainbow!' the child loudly proclaimed out of nowhere. To which the mother replied, 'Don't be silly. There are eight colours in a rainbow.'
I struggle to say a kind word about this country's previous administration, but I had a strong urge to turn to the woman and shout, 'Education, education, education!' I only wish I could be there the next time she sits down with her offspring and a picture book and begins helping him to count the rainbow's colours. And no doubt scientists would like to know what that eighth one is; who knows, it could be as significant as the elusive particles they're looking for in the Large Hadron Collider, that ultimate big boys' toy.
Instead, I plucked a chicken mayo baguette from the shelf and said nothing. Later, at Asda (other supermarkets are available) I found myself buying the biggest frozen chicken I could find, and realised that the first random craving of my pregnancy might just have kicked in.
It hadn't, as it turned out. But since then, two cravings do seem to have taken a firm grip on my daily dietary intake and assumed control of a whole shelf in the fridge. I am now at the mercy of rice pudding and custard. Not at the same time, I hasten to add, but in equal measures.
The shame of it is that I'm not even making my own. I could, and indeed often do, but life is busy and when a craving for either hits me the last thing I want to do is have to make it myself. So there is now a sizeable collection of (I say it with shame) tins of custard and rice pudding in our kitchen.
True, wandering around Asda and filling a corner of the trolley with 17p tins of own-brand rice pudding and custard doesn't feel good. Usually I wouldn't stoop so low. Speaking of which, could we please have it on a slightly higher shelf rather than at almost floor level? The pitying smile as all those cheap tins beep their way over the scanner is bad enough, without having had to almost go down on my knees to get them in the first place. I'll pile them high if you will!
But it turns out that custard is a secret love that hangs over from the treats of childhood well into our adult lives. Think about it; when dining out, custard is seldom seen on any menu, even as an option, and it's not something any of us ever mention when talking about food. But there I was, texting a friend the other afternoon, when I happened to mention these new cravings and he instantly craved custard himself. You see? We never grow out of it. It's a moreish secret treat.
And thus one of the rules of motherhood that I shall be instigating during my child's life is simply this. Custard's too good for children; it's ours!
It appears that being a Hereford United supporter and being pregnant have one thing in common: they are seen by others as cues for unsolicited but well-meaning advice.
It's no surprise to me that my pregnancy has opened the flood gates to a torrent of tips, and it's no less surprising that most of them seem to have been extracted from that old faithful, the book of old wives' tales. So whilst I'm amused to be told that eating broccoli will improve the likelihood of our child being a girl and that wearing copper jewellery will protect my all-round well-being, I'm no more liable to put any faith in these apparently random bits of hand-me-down wisdom than I am to ever consider an attempt to influence the gender of our baby through vegetables or to accessorise with some cheap piece of tat for health reasons. Please, I have standards.
Hereford are currently rooted to the bottom of League Two and in desperate need of mountaineering equipment if they're to stand any immediate chance of climbing to even minor heights. This is of course a topic on which even more people are wont to pronounce, the beautiful game being one of those things on which the world, his wife and their labradoodle have an opinion. And for me, the self-proclaimed football experts are only one step below holier-than-thou ex-smokers on the irritating smugness scale. (I speak as an ex-smoker but one who merely gets on with it and does not preach. This may change when I have a baby's lungs to protect, so if I rant on the theme next year you'll know why.)
What makes the armchair punditry worse is not the fact that everybody, myself included, thinks they know better than their team's manager, but that those who wryly pass the sentence of doom upon Hereford are always supporters of the top teams in the Premier League. Well, I say supporters; I'm acquainted with rather too many people who seem to support the likes of Manchester United with clearly no ties to the team, the town or even the region. Yes, it's easy to follow a team that does well. But you'll only find true passion in the lower leagues, even if does come with the required side order of frequent despair.
My husband, a man wise enough to preserve an aura of peace and tranquility around my volatile hormones, is one of the few who makes no proclamations on the Bulls. Instead he quietly perseveres with his loyalty to Brighton & Hove Albion, and I look upward at their lofty perch atop League One with envy.
And one need only look to the farmland skirting this city to observe this simple truth: seagulls do soar above bulls...
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