Month One, Day Eighteen

Our holiday is over. We've walked nearly a hundred miles in ten days which means that, strictly speaking, I should now be a waif. I should also be rewarded for this noble behaviour with something like a baby. I can test next week.

As soon as we get home, I leave Jack outside bemoaning the length of the grass and the asparagus that has gone to seed in our absence, and I hit Google. 'Am I pregnant?'

I'm directed to forums full of fifteen-year-old girls. They have been informed by their schools' Moral and Social Education teachers that if they ever go to a party lasting beyond 10pm, they will, inevitably, come home pregnant. Especially if there is alcohol at the party. Even more especially if there are drugs.

'I got drnk at a p.r.t and now I think Im pg.'

'Ur mum will kill u.'

'I no.'

'Wot u gon do?'

'Dont no.'

'Keep it. U like b.a.b's'

'Yeh.'

'Tell ur mum u wasnt drunk.'

'Defo.'

It is interesting how the advice changes as you get older.

I won't be drinking next month.