My pear shape had always given me reason to believe that I was made for baby-making. I have broad hips and thick thighs, and over time I’d come to see myself as breeding stock. There had to be a reason that I was built this way, that I looked so preposterous in a jumpsuit? It had helped me to view aspects of my body I felt less thrilled about through a lens of biological purpose.

But it turned out that I don’t love pregnancy and it doesn’t feel like a natural condition for me at all. A couple of weeks after Cornwall the nausea starts. No vomiting, luckily, but constant seasickness that only fades with crackers and grapefruit.

For Freddie, the baby is just a concept in those early days of pregnancy. Without morning sickness, it might have been the same for me. Feeling ill is a reminder that I am pregnant because otherwise, life seems to continue as normal. I go to work, look the same, wear all my regular clothes. What I lose in gastric vigour, I gain in not having periods.

At the twelve-week scan, I see Freddie’s eyes fill with tears at the sight of the cannellini bean onscreen. The sonographer points out the baby’s bulbous head, the quiver of a heartbeat, and its bladder, which, from its dark colour, she can tell is full. She gives us a printout of an ultrasound still. We give our parents a glimpse of their first grandchild and break the news to siblings and friends.

The following day I feel queasier than usual. I stay in bed with a bag of crisps and YouTube, but I start to feel worse. I throw up. It’s a really hot summer and I wind up in hospital on a drip for the afternoon. It’s a nasty bug. Rehydration fluids and paracetamol sort me out, but the episode heralds a new stage of pregnancy. I order a ‘Baby on Board’ badge