27/07/2012 13:04 BST | Updated 26/09/2012 06:12 BST

Who's the Daddy - Part 1

Deep in contemplation, I sat in a train to Cambridge, due to meet my Ex. His band was touring the provinces. Having ascended the dizzying heights of rock and roll stardom in the early noughties, they then, (as any half decent rock stars are apt to do) fell prey to the excess' of success, disbanded and had only recently reformed.

We hadn't seen each other for near on a month. When something is over, it is in my mind - over. There had been no communication, no late night texting or calling, but of course now, things were far from over.

I considered it a positive sign that the Ex was at least willing to meet. Since discovering I was with child I had been doused in a host of kaleidoscopic emotions; spanning from abject fear to denial, absolute joy to disbelief. I reckoned this could be a turning point in my life. This could be an amazing opportunity, a divine gift, then again it could be a life changing sentence, guarantying three years of sleepless nights, baby sick and dirty nappies.

The possibility of this pregnancy even occurring had been so slim as to be practically anorexic. In a naïve way, I anthropomorphised the yolk, (its present state), as a most tenacious being and I felt slightly beholden to give it at least a fighting chance. On the other hand, I know myself to be a selfish woman, who loves her independence, loves adventure, travel, to dance, party and sometimes pretend she is stuck in some late twenties vacuum.

Less than a week ago, my immediate future featured my teenage son's soon-to-be expected departure for boarding school. As for myself, I had been nurturing vague plans to go to Paris and learn French. Who cares if I was the oldest au pair in town? I would enrol in the Sorbonne, spout pseudo-philosophy, and take up smoking again.

My first pregnancy was also unplanned or rather, a surprise. Over the past 12 years, I have fallen in love repeatedly with this boy at my side and on each occasion deeper and deeper, ever marvelling at his development. My relationship with his father, if unconventional, (we never married nor lived together) has been wonderful. He is a fantastic father, supportive of us both and our 'relationship' has worked perhaps because (I believe), of its unconventionality. There has never been any dashed expectations, bitterness, or acrimony between us. Overall, it has been a very positive experience but yes, I admit, at times, lonely.

The train pulled into Cambridge station. Inhaling deeply I stepped down onto the platform. Any romantic expectations I may have secretly harboured failed to transpire - the fog of people did not clear to reveal him with a bouquet of flowers - standing waiting, arms wide open into which I would jump. The reality being, there was no sign of him. Was it a case of cold feet? Would he dare stand me up? Was he being purposely cruel? Or was I being incredibly paranoid...?

Turned out he was stuck in traffic. I walked out the station and down the road to meet his cab. 200 yards further, a black taxi swerved to the side of the road. I half stumbled inside then knocked my head on the roof, not quite the entrance I was hoping to make. We looked at each other,


'Hi...' and so began our first series of talks.


What's happening on the inside?

During week four the zygote now known as the blastocyst has firmly embedded itself in the uterus lining. This ball of cells divide further into two groups, one which will grow into the fetus (your baby) and the other will become the placenta, the provider of nutrients and effective waste facility for your baby.