To be pregnant is to become accustomed to search parties in your vagina. First it’s the sperm gunning for its Fabergé egg, each swimmer as lustful and single-minded as Matthew McConaughey on a treasure hunt. Then it’s the transducer probe assaulting your innards during an ultrasound.

I had my first extensive ultrasound on a Monday morning a couple of months after I’d turned twenty-seven.

‘Do you seriously not care if it’s a boy or a girl?’ I asked Jake (the husband of English, Irish, Welsh and definitely not Indian descent – oops! – who I chose against my parents’ wishes) in the moments just before our appointment.

‘Nope. Happy with either.’

‘Yeah, me too.’ I feigned cheerfulness…

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