This writing addiction is taking a hold: awake at 5am, I’d written today’s piece (just flash fiction this time at 349 words plus title) before I got out of bed. Would this have been Britain’s future if we’d all voted ‘Remain’, I wonder? Or if we’d all voted ‘Leave’? One thing I’m certain of is that this writing challenge is certainly keeping me on my creative toes. I’m looking forward to seeing what Day 5’s Brief is …

Susie Sunshine

Susie Sunshine’s birth was a joyful experience for all concerned: unicorns pranced and scattered gold dust from their ivory horns as the future World’s First President of the Happiness Party slid down a rainbow and landed at her mother’s feet in a wicker basket decorated with pretty, pink bows. At least, that’s the version of events Susie’s telling in 2091.

The world in 2091 is very different to the one where Susie grew up. Back then, there were still such things as hunger and homelessness; today, there is plenty of food for everyone and each child lives in his or her own gingerbread house – mortgage free, of course. In the Dark Ages of Unhappiness, tears and torment existed, alongside mayhem and misery; but nowadays, thanks to Susie, everyone has compulsory wellbeing lessons from the age of five – which, coincidentally, is also the age people are when they are born. (Genetic engineering has got rid of all the negative elements of parenthood, such as sleepless night, teething and nappies.)

One of the things that has catapulted Susie into becoming World President of the Happiness Party is her determination to give every individual the happy childhood that she’s carefully constructed for herself in her memoirs. In Susie’s version of events, her drunken mother has metamorphasised into a benevolent angel, doling out lollipops and lullabies in equal measure, surrounding her with hugs and kisses, all but smothering her with love. It’s important for everyone’s wellbeing that she models the ideals and aspirations at the heart of her mission statement.

The history books of the future will look back on the Golden Age of 2091. They will wax lyrical about Susie’s positive innovations: the removal of death and decay, the absence of old age. They will laud the fact that she eradicated misery, outlawed pain. Thanks to Susie, 2091 is full of shiny, happy people, all of them aged between five and thirty, inhabiting a world of eternal sunshine and endless lollipops. Happiness is the only disease in this brave new world – and Susie’s done her best to make sure that everyone’s infected.

So, in case you hadn’t guessed, yesterday’s brief was to write truly the worst story ever – I’m hoping that people who saw my effort didn’t think that really was my best work!

Today’s offering follows:

The Importance of Being Honest

“Would you ever lie to me?” I ask.

I’ve always thought that honesty is the most important thing in a relationship – partly because my ex didn’t see things that way at all and seemed to believe it was okay for him to cheat on me as long as I didn’t know about it.

I still remember the gut-wrenching agony I felt when I stumbled across the email he’d left open on his laptop: a lovey-dovey message from a woman named Kath who’d sent him a thousand kisses – yes, I counted every one of them to make sure – and claimed she couldn’t stand being apart from him.

I challenged him, of course: I waited until we were having dinner, just the two of us, and then dropped her name into the conversation ever so casually. He didn’t bat an eyelid: just laughed and made some comment about her being infatuated with him; alleged it was all one-sided. But I knew.

And, once I knew, it was all over. I think she possibly thought I knew more than I did because – when I engineered bumping into her at the gym at just the right time to get chatting – I told her I knew what was going on, even lied and said that Dave had told me it was an affair. By the time she’d incriminated herself – and him – it was too late. I made her give me her phone so I could forward myself all the raunchy text messages he’d sent her. I needed evidence, you see – didn’t want Dave to try to wriggle out of this one.

It was several years later when I met Mark, my current husband. He’d been burned too, just like me; and because we both knew what it was like to be cheated on, we promised each other that we’d always be honest with each other, no matter what. And, so far, that’s worked – until now, that is.

I ask the question again, turning around in front of Mark so he can give me an honest answer. “Do these jeans make me look fat?” I repeat, expecting honesty but wanting something kinder.

Mark doesn’t let me down. “Not fat – they show off your arse, if that’s what you mean.”

It would be far too tacky to ask him whether or not my bum looks big in these jeans; besides, I know what he’s saying is that he loves the sight of my backside and that its size is immaterial.

Mark will always fancy me: I know that as surely as I know that the earth is round or that Teresa May buggered up Brexit; but the reason I’m asking is because I need to know whether or not I’ll pass muster at my upcoming school reunion. Back in the 1990s, I was an awkward, gawky teenager, too self-conscious and shy to attract any attention from boys. Now, just past the big Four-O, I’m far more comfortable in my own skin, actually like the way I look most days. I know I look pretty good compared to most of the people I was at school with too: thanks to Facebook, I know exactly who’s aged well and who hasn’t. The boys, on the whole, are a sorry looking crowd: mostly bald, or overweight, or both; but the girls seem to have invested more time and effort into their appearance, sporting a range of almost natural looking hair colours and make up that just escapes being tarty. I’ve chatted to a few of them on Messenger, ever since Paula set up this reunion page, and realised that we’ve all mellowed and matured with the passing of years so that I now find the ‘them’ and ‘us’ mentality of ‘cool kids’ and ‘geeks’ no longer exists. Instead, we are bound together by age and era, products of a pre-internet time when children ‘played out’ and a phone was something fixed to the wall in your parents’ house.

*

Twenty-four hours later and the reunion is in full swing. I’ve travelled almost a hundred miles to be here and initially it’s terrifying as I nervously make my way into the cricket club to face crowds of strangers I haven’t seen for twenty-six years.

Luckily, Julie’s by the bar, sipping away at a bottle of cider. We’ve chatted a lot on Facebook recently, both of us commiserating with each other over dead-loss exes and the highs and lows of parenthood. She was always a hefty girl at school and she’s still plump now, but she gives me a massive grin when she sees me and hugs me as if I’m some long-lost relative and not someone who just happened to sit on the same table as her for art lessons all those years ago.

Behind her, Alison and Rosie are catching up on current jobs and partners; and, over in the corner, a group of middle-aged men – who used to be the boys in my year group – are discussing football. (What else?)

I’m just about to order an orange juice when a voice at my shoulder makes me spin round. “Good to see you, Deb. Can I get you a drink?”

Paul Johnson was my first crush, way, way back in Year Seven. My longing for him was hopelessly unrequited: he was already going out with Joanne Stansfield and she had long dark hair and curves whilst I was just a little girl with short hair and skinny legs. After Joanne, he upgraded to Louise Benson and they were pretty much inseparable for the rest of our time at school. I used to think about him from time to time and wonder if the two of them had got married; there’s a ring on his finger now, but I don’t want to look too nosy, so I decide not to ask.

Paul repeats his question. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Just an orange juice, thanks,” I reply absently, cognisant of the fact that I’ll be staying with my teetotal mother tonight and she won’t appreciate it if I roll up drunk or even the least little bit tiddly.

Paul hands me a glass a moment later and I take a deep draught before I realise there’s something else in there besides orange juice. “Is that vodka?” I ask, wondering what he’s playing at.

He gives me an unapologetic grin. “I thought it might bring back a few memories of all those parties in Year Eleven.”

Perhaps he remembers those parties, but I certainly don’t: I was never cool enough to be invited to one of them.

Slightly flustered, I sip my drink, realising that, unlike most of his friends, Paul’s not fallen prey to the same ravages of time. He still has hair, for one thing; and although there’s a slight suggestion of the onset of a middle-aged paunch, he’s aged well for a man in his early forties.

“You’re looking good for your age,” I say lightly.

He regards me hungrily. “So are you.”

Our eyes meet and something imperceptible passes between us. That’s when I know: Paul Johnson, the object of my schoolgirl infatuation, likes what he sees. And I’m damned if I’m going to pass up the opportunity.

*

We spend most of the evening glued to each other’s sides. Paul buys me drink after drink – by now, I’ve stopped telling myself that I’m not going to drink any alcohol and I’m ordering white wine spritzers as if there’s no tomorrow. I’m not going to do anything stupid, I reason with myself: I’m just going to rewrite history a little, give my ego a bit of a boost by flirting with a guy who used to be one of the most popular boys in the school.

It’s ten o’clock and the room we’d booked at the Cricket Club is now officially closed. Paul looks at me. “We’re going to see if any of the old nightclubs are open,” he says. “Are you up for it?”

I can’t believe that I’m actually getting to hang out with the cool kids. It’s not just Paul, but Simon Jones, Martin Foster, Laura Smith and Helen Anderson, all six of us piling illegally into a single taxi that will carry us into the town centre in search of our lost adolescence. When the taxi driver grumbles that the car isn’t big enough to take us all, Paul pulls me onto his knee. His hand on my waist feels strangely exciting, although I can’t decide whether that’s the alcohol or something else making me feel that way.

We reach the centre and tumble out of the cab, laughing and joking as we push our way inside a cramped, dark venue. “I thought this was the Post Office!” I remark with surprise.

Laura lets out a laugh. “Twenty years ago, maybe! They’ve been doing Old School Disco Nights here for ages.”

As we dance to the almost-forgotten tunes of Pulp, Britney Spears and The Spice Girls, the tension that’s been hanging in the air between Paul and me seems to thicken, wrapping itself around us as if urging us together. A half-formed thought at the back of my mind reminds me of Mark, my gentle, patient husband, and of Lisa, Paul’s equally unwitting wife. It’s not that I want to be unfaithful, you understand; it’s just that the combination of wine and nostalgia are taking their effect on all of us. Even as I gaze about me, while Paul holds me close in the swaying rhythm of the music, I can see Simon and Laura enveloped around each other, and Martin and Helen kissing like a couple of teenagers.

But we’re not teenagers any more: we’re past forty and we can’t party all night the way the others used to. Paul looks at me and sighs. “I suppose we’d better make a move.”

We extricate ourselves from the dance floor, leaving the club without any remorse. Martin and Helen disappear into a taxi together and I feel a sudden pang of regret: I know she’s single, but Martin spent quite a bit of time telling me about his wife and his teenage sons. I only hope they know what they’re doing.

I check my purse and I’ve no change left for a taxi of my own. Mum’s house is only half a mile away though, so I reckon I’ll be okay walking – even if it is way past midnight.

“I’ll see you around, then,” I tell Paul as I prepare to wend my way home.

“You’re not walking, are you?” He looks shocked.

“Don’t worry – I promise not to mug anyone,” I giggle; but he frowns and insists on walking with me.

For a while, we walk in silence, unspoken desire hovering around us like moths. I know nothing can happen, and I’m okay with that: I’m going back to my mum’s house; he’s going back to his parents’ – it’s as if we’re still teenagers and he’s walking me home at the end of a date.

We reach the end of my road and I turn to face him. “Thanks for tonight,” I say sincerely. “I had a really good time.”

He bends and kisses me: a friendly kiss goodbye that rapidly deepens into something much more meaningful. My heart flutters; my legs feel weak. This is everything I ever wanted when I was fourteen, fifteen; and now I’m a grown-up, it’s no longer enough.

When he finally releases me, I feel emotionally bruised. I’ve just kissed a man who isn’t my husband – and I enjoyed it; far too much.

“We should have done this years ago,” Paul says, looking as sad as I feel.

And I know that somehow he’ll convince himself that he always had a thing for me in high school, that this one kiss was something he’d always dreamed of, just like I dreamed of kissing him. He’ll tell himself that because it’s easier than the truth: that we betrayed our partners because of wine and whimsy.

I creep back into Mum’s house, feeling slightly ashamed. It’s almost 2am but she doesn’t stir. Silently, I undress in the bedroom that used to be my own, crawl into bed and then lie awake for hours, wondering what I’ll  tell Mark.

*

It’s almost nine by the time I wake up. Automatically, I reach for my phone and click on the Facebook app. There are plenty of photos of the reunion, including some from the nightclub as well. I gaze at a photo of Paul holding me close and think, for just a brief moment, of what might have been. Then I add a comment to the group photo of the Class of ’93: “Did anyone else feel like a teenager all over again, sneaking into their parents’ house at 2am and trying not to sound drunk?”

There’s a message from Paul flashing up on my screen. “Finally up, are you?” Followed by, “I stopped off for a kebab on the way home after leaving you. Big mistake.”

Does he mean the kebab or the kiss?

*

It’s midday before I feel able to get behind the wheel for the two hours’ drive back to Surrey. On the journey, I’m quiet and subdued. I can’t tell Mark about the kiss: he’d feel betrayed. That’s when I realise that honesty isn’t the most important thing in a relationship: it’s trust.

Myriad clichés assault my mind as I drive: ‘What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over’; ‘Ignorance is bliss’; and, finally, ‘Sorry seems to be the hardest word’. I know I’m making excuses, trying to fool myself that it’s better to hide the truth; but if I confess, will it really do any good? Isn’t it far more likely that Mark will think something far worse happened and that I’m lying if I claim it was ‘just’ a kiss?

*

By the time I reach home, I have a killer headache. (Or is it a hangover?) Mark greets me at the door, wearing a pink crown and with sparkly glitter on his cheeks. It looks like he’s been keeping our six-year-old entertained whilst I’ve been off having extra-marital clinches with former high school hunks. Guilt compounds my migraine, making me wish I could crawl into bed and stay there for a week, but instead I have laundry to do and a kitchen to clean – anything that will take my mind off Paul and the way I’ve messed up my marriage.

By five thirty, I’m dead on my feet. Mark touches me on the shoulder. “Why don’t you go and have a soak in the bath?” he suggests. “I’ll sort out food; you just relax.”

*

Lying in warm soapy suds for the best part of an hour makes me feel much better. When you think about it, I haven’t really done anything wrong. It’s not as if I slept with the guy, for heaven’s sake! It was just one little kiss.

But then I think how I’d feel if Mark was the one who’d been kissing someone else behind my back. Should I tell? Would I be happier not knowing myself?

Wrapped in a towel, I make my way into the bedroom. There on the bedside table is my phone – I put it there to charge before I stepped into the bath. I thought I’d left it on screensaver, but instead it’s showing Paul’s most recent message: “Last night was pretty special.” Winky face.

Mark’s sitting on the bed, staring at the walls, deliberately not looking at me. Without him saying anything, I know he’s seen the message.

“Mark,” I begin, slowly, hesitantly, but he cuts me short.

“Would you ever lie to me, Deb?”

And that’s when I finally tell him the truth.

Yesterday’s brief was okay, but today’s … A writer friend (the same one who inspired me to sign up) posted her own piece of writing for Day 2 earlier today, with the cryptic comment “I wonder if anyone can guess what today’s brief is?”

To be honest, hers is a much better piece of writing than mine is. I think I took the brief quite literally when I penned mine. And, I do have the added benefit of having been an English teacher since 1992, so my own piece is reasonably authentic in terms of my having seen a number of stories of a similar quality over the years.

I won’t tell you at this point what the brief is – all I will say is that it’s the writer’s equivalent of going out with no make up on, in your onesie, on a really bad hair day. Having said that, it was fun to write.

Take it as you will …

The Best Story Ever

Once upon a time there was a big fat king and he lived in a castle no in a tent because the wicked witch put a spell on him and turned him into a hedgehog into a big smelly man with a beard and he had to live in a tent because a hundred years ago ten years ago the witch asked him to marry her but she was like really ugly and she had a big fat hairy wart on her chin so the king said you are like the ugliest person I have ever seen and first the witch cried got angry then she was going to turn him into a toad but she liked toads too much so she just turned him into a smelly man with a beard because beards are like really gross. And then there was this princess dude who was like really cool because she could skateboard and get really high scores on all the bestest video games and like really cool stuff like that but she didn’t like all the boys who kept following her around because they were like so needy and stuff. And she was really really cool but these guys were like so pathetic that they liked really lame stuff like Ben 10 and that’s what my brother liked when he was three and now he’s fifteen so that’s so obviously not cool, right? And then there was like a monster an ogre with big hands teeth and he was going to eat the princess but she chopped his head off with this really cool sword samurai sword that she found in the charity shop but it was really a magic sword and whoever finds it and buys it will be king of England or some crap like that anyway she bought the sword and chopped the ogre’s head off. Oh, and there were these criminals as well and they had been in prison for stealing cars and taking stuff that didn’t belong to them but they were really vampires because this vampire dude was one of the prison guards and he like bit them you know so they turned into vampires and I mean proper vampires not silly vampires like in the Twilight books where they’re vegetarian and they go all sparkly in sunlight and all that crap. So like they’re proper vampires and first they bite the princess and make her a princess vampire and then they bite the fat smelly king dude who lives in a tent and then they bite the witch. So like now we’ve got all these really cool vampires but you can only have one king chief vampire who gets to boss all the other vampires around so they have this like contest where they all have to prove they’re the best vampire and it’s like The X Factor but because they’re vampires they call it the Necks Factor – see  what I did there? – and they all have to do karaoke but it’s like a song they’ve written that proves they’re better than the other vampire dudes and it’s like Britain’s Got Talent too but if the judges don’t like you they um like they kill you and because they’re like all vampires, if they don’t like your act they stake you through the heart so you explode in a cloud of dust like on Buffy that was so cool when they staked vamps and they just turned to dust. And the contest is going really great and the king vampire gets staked straightaway because his singing’s like so terrible but then some of them like the princess and some of them like the witch and they can’t decide which one to stake so they say the princess and the witch have to wrestle in jelly and the winner gets to be head vampire but the loser can be like vice president or something and so they fight and all the male vampires are like go on you can kill her but then the witch vampire and the princess vampire go all feminist and decide to kill the vampire judges who are all men vampires and so they kill them and they eat the jelly and that’s as far as I’ve got so far what do you think?

Inspired by an ex-colleague and fellow writer, I signed up to The Literal Challenge, in which I will be given a different brief every day in June and will have to write something on the theme.

Here’s my entry for Day One:

A Night At The Theatre

“All the world’s a stage …” is one of Shakespeare’s most famous lines, and I am certainly prepped for the performance of a lifetime as I waddle into the delivery suite, well on my way to giving birth.

Okay – I’ve cheated somewhat. This isn’t an operating theatre but a room in which a midwife will direct me in this once-only spectacular that involves me pushing a tiny human out of an orifice that seems fat too small. (More of a variety act than a serious play, then?)

It is 2 am – a bit early for a matinee; a little late for an evening’s entertainment – and exactly one hour since I felt the prompting of an, as yet, unknown actor who will turn out to be the star of the show by the time he or she makes an appearance.

It’s not like I haven’t bothered rehearsing for this: eight weeks of NCT classes have convinced me that natural childbirth is NOT the way to go. Like any good actor, I’ve had breathing classes, practised my moves. The problem is, no matter how prepared you think you are, there will always be an element of improvisation when it comes to giving birth, and that’s because the baby hasn’t read the script.

I suppose you could say I’m in a supporting role, rather than being the lead, in all of this – after all, once this tiny terror pops out, he – or she – will  be a diva to rival any Hollywood star, insisting on her – or his – own schedule and individual dietary requirements and keeping everyone awake with his – or her – hell-raising antics night after night.

Perhaps the media already has some inkling of what’s going on because, after half an hour of sitting here, hooked up to an internal monitor which registers every contraction as peaks and troughs that resemble a mountain range, a bevy of student doctors armed with clipboards appear at the door, wondering if they can ‘observe’. There’s even a guy with a video camera, wanting to capture everything on film ‘for training purposes’.

I wisely decline to give autographs or pose for photos. I’ll have enough on my mind with the midwife they’ve assigned me – an enthusiastic evangelist for eschewing any and every kind of pain relief – without worrying about what I look like at either end.

Jenny, the midwife, regards me now. She’s actually quivering with excitement at the thought of a drugs-free delivery. “Come on, Mel,” she begins in a jolly tone. “Let’s think about how we can tackle this mountain called pain!”

My gut instinct when she says this is to point out that ‘we’ won’t be tackling it at all: this baby is inhabiting my womb, not hers, and I’ll be the only one ‘feeling the burn’ when I attempt to push it out.

(I mentally apologise to my unborn child for calling it ‘it’; however, since I declined to find out in advance what ‘flavour’ it is, there’s not much I can do about that.)

Jenny checks the monitor then does a quick recce below. “You’re about six centimetres dilated,” she tells me. “And your contractions are fine, so I think we can get rid of this monitor, for the time being.” She points to the large, inflated sphere in the corner of the room. “Why don’t you try out the birthing ball? Lots of mums swear by it.”

Did she say ‘swear by it’ or ‘swear at it’? I wonder, trying dismally to work out exactly how this giant space-hopper is supposed to steer me through the still uncharted waters of my labour. Luckily, at that moment, the door opens and a familiar head pokes itself inside the room. My mother has arrived for the birth of her first grandchild.

It’s a testament to my mum that she’s never once complained about the unconventional route I’ve taken to enter motherhood. Not for me the outdated concept of marriage or even civil partnership: my child is the product of a liaison between my own egg and the rather expensive sperm of a private donor. I know nothing at all about the father except that he is intelligent (a Master’s degree in Business) and successful and that his medical records are outstanding. It might not be everyone’s dream scenario for conception, but it’s one that works for me.

Since my one-woman show now has an audience of two, I decide to ad-lib a few lines. “I don’t suppose I could have some gas and air, could I? Only, it’s starting to hurt a lot more than it did at first.”

Jenny looks horrified at my suggestion. “You do know gas and air’s not good for the baby? Or you, for that matter. You need to be fully alert when it’s time to push.”

I thought I was in charge of this scene, not her. Fortunately, Mum comes to my rescue. “Have you got your birth plan with you, Mel?”

“It’s in my bag, over there.” I shoot her a grateful look, aware that, if it comes to a fight, Mum is more than capable of holding her own against this dragon-like doyenne.

Hours pass – well, I say hours, but the clock claims it’s only been fifty-seven minutes. In that time, I’ve tried gas and air and realised, with annoyance, that Jenny is going to get her way after all. I was told to breathe in until I heard a click, then breathe out again. I dutifully breathed in until I thought my lungs were bursting, but the ‘click’ was absent. It is totally mortifying to be told that you are too incompetent to make use of the pain relief on offer.

Meanwhile, Mum has whizzed her way through the quick crossword in the free paper she always carries in her handbag and has picked up her knitting needles. I indulge in a pleasant daydream of her knitting Jenny a straitjacket, but it is not to be.

Speaking of Jenny, she’s feeling my cervix again now. I wriggle uncomfortably, then wince as another contraction rips through my body, taking my breath away with its unexpected ferocity. When Jenny asked me a few minutes ago what I’d like to try next, I told her honestly that I’d like to go to sleep for a few hours and then wake up to find the baby had been born. Her withering response of “Well, that’s not going to happen, is it?” immediately dashed any hopes I had of an emergency caesarean putting an end to the pain.

She looks at me now, her face beaming. “I think you’re ready to start pushing.”

I don’t feel ready; but then, she is the expert, so I close my eyes, grit my teeth and imagine I’m trying to do a huge poo. Nothing happens. I try again.

After fifteen minutes or so of trying and getting nowhere, I feel distinctly bruised, not to mention absolutely exhausted. Jenny looks at me with concern.

“I’m just going to have another feel,” she says, inserting her fingers once more in a manner that reminds me of some of the vets I’ve seen on TV. Her face changes to an expression of abject apology. “I’m really sorry – you’re only eight centimetres. I was feeling the wrong thing.”

What on earth was she feeling, then? It’s not like I have a sideboard stuffed up there, is it? Or as if my vagina’s Mary Poppins’ carpetbag, waiting for standard lamps and all manner of other improbable objects to be plucked from its Tardis-like proportions, decades before Doctor Who was even thought of.

While Mum tuts at her incompetence, Jenny checks her clipboard. “How about a bath?” she suggests. “The warm water will help to relax you.”

It’s the next best thing to the birthing pool that wasn’t available when I checked in, so I nod my head and hope that the bath will do the trick. It certainly relaxes me and both Jenny and Mum are tactful enough to let me do this bit on my own. “Just press the buzzer when you need someone to help lift you out,” Jenny says as she closes the door behind me.

About fifteen minutes later, the water is growing cold around me, so I press the buzzer and wait. Nothing happens. I press it again. Still nothing.

By this time, I’m getting slightly worried. My baby could start arriving at any moment and I’m stuck in the bath – and I mean literally stuck in the bath. I try getting out on my own, but my legs have turned to jelly and all I can do is stand there, starkers, shin deep in rapidly cooling water, shouting “Help!” as loudly as I can.

Finally, I hear the click of heels on the floor outside and a bossy voice saying crossly, “Who’s shouting in one of the bathrooms?” The door opens and I have never been so glad to see anyone ever before in my life.

“I’m sorry,” I say weakly. “I kept pressing the buzzer, but no one came.”

Within minutes, this marvellous midwife has found Mum and Jenny, and I’ve been lifted out of the bath and dressed in the ratty old t-shirt I’ve chosen for the occasion. This time I really am ready to push – apparently, it’s too late for an epidural but after what I’ve been through with being stuck in the bath, I’ve got to the stage where I just don’t care anymore.

I’ll draw a veil over the actual birth – I’m sure you don’t want to hear about primeval grunts and screams, or the scissors they used for the episiotomy, which looked like garden shears; and I know that even the most strong-stomached of readers don’t want to know about me being sewn up with cat-gut. (“Isn’t that the stuff they use to string tennis rackets!” Mum exclaims, before glancing at my face and realising this is not what I want to hear right now.)

No, instead I’ll fast-forward to the real star of the show, the prima donna who kept us all waiting for far too long before she made her appearance. Emma Faith weighs in at seven pounds three ounces (what that is in kilos, I have no idea – but hey! aren’t we leaving the EU anyway?) and has big blue eyes and a fuzz of dark hair. Despite the fact that it’s her debut performance, she knows how to work an audience, batting her eyelids so that we’re all wrapped around her little finger, before opening her mouth and exercising a pair of lungs to rival Mariah Carey.

I’m no longer the leading lady in this drama, but it honestly doesn’t matter. From now on, I’m happy to be relegated to a backstage role so I can let my daughter shine in the part she was literally born to play. In years to come, I’ll be on hand with costumes and props, prompt her when she fluffs her lines and even watch her progress to writing her own script. A star is born – and it’s my job from now on to help her sparkle.