I noticed a massive variety in what pregnant women allow themselves, and others, to do.

Take food. The NHS provides a pretty concise and sensible list of what to eat and what to avoid during pregnancy.  Having been inundated with various other bizarre and conflicting rules, my advice is to stick to it.  Definitely steer clear of books written by Americans and stay-at-home pregnant women if you want to retain a broad diet - which you will need if you're going to show up in boardrooms around the world and be able to eat enough for you and your crazy hormones.  

A few observations on national traits: the Serbians want you to eat soup and will provide it for you at all possible occasions; the Americans won’t let you eat lobster tail (and much more besides, but the tail seems a special sticking point; since it wasn’t on my NHS list I ate it anyway) or get within sniffing distance of a glass of wine; the Italians and Spanish are pretty relaxed about cheese, the French worry about the toxins on fruit and veg; and everyone agrees that anything goat-related is a bad idea.  I wonder what Heidi’s mother ate (did she die in childbirth?).

Tummy-touching is also controversial. The British are very negative about it; quite a few women have told me that The Worst Thing about being pregnant is people thinking it’s OK to touch you.  Rubbish.  There are so many worse things.  Being sick.  Not sleeping.  People staring at your with pity.  

In Spain, Portugal and Italy lots of people touch you and I’ve come to be quite open to it. In the UK, if you run into an old friend or a colleague, they light up and stretch out a hand towards your tummy.  But they invariably pull back abruptly, afraid of invading your space.  Why?  Surely it’s less personal than the double cheek kiss.  Those who do touch seem to do it instinctively, with real fascination, and use it as a way to connect with you and the baby.  The most surprising people overcome their hesitation and, in my experience, offer it as a gesture of interest and affection.  Let’s lift the tummy-touching ban.

Activity is equally contentious; there are endless theories about what you supposedly can and cannot do.  My pregnancy yoga group is surprised by my work and travel schedule. Yet our teacher says that the more active women she works with have the most energy and fewest complaints.  I’ve certainly found that with my friends.  At nine months gone, I was still attending my regular non-pregnancy Iyengar yoga class every week (including shoulder stands) despite lots of people telling me I shouldn’t.

There are also the boundaries which other seek to impose on you from the bizarre (‘NEVER go through the electronic swing gates into the tube’) to the inexplicable (‘don’t paint your nails, have facials or use deodorant’).  People also tend to frame their questions to the heavily pregnant in negative terms.  Are you feeling dreadful? Are you exhausted? Can you bear the waiting? Does the kicking drive you mad? Perhaps it’s a bit evangelical, but I react strongly.  It is such a privilege to be well that it would be quite wrong to suggest anything else – not to mention disrespectful to those who are having a bad time of it.

A friend is my cause célèbre.  She worked and cared for her daughter throughout her second pregnancy, during which she also cycled to work and back until her balance got too precarious.  When she went into labour, she pushed her daughter’s pushchair over a mile down and back Chiswick High Street for lunch with friends.  She relaxed at home in the afternoon and said the pain was entirely manageable until the midwife insisted she went to hospital.  Then she got stuck in transition stage in the back of the car in a traffic jam, and ended up being carried into the maternity suite by two men who jumped out of their white van to help her husband when he parked up. But she delivered twenty minutes after arriving, and was on the phone effervescing with joy a few hours later.  

I didn’t know if I’d be anything like as positive and in control in the midst of labour (let’s face it, not a bloody chance).  But I celebrated the positive: I felt happy and healthy; the baby would come when it’s good and ready; daily exercise ensured I sleep pretty well; and feeling my baby kicking and wriggling was one of the greatest simple pleasures I have ever known.