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...