I don’t understand this.

Yesterday my trousers fitted, and today they don’t.

Yesterday, I was still quite comfortably sneaking a pair of thermal long johns under my size 12s. But today, when I slip them on, I fear I’m restricting the flow of oxygen to such a point that I’ll be lucky not to end up on the floor before lunchtime.

Of course, my t-shirts have long been upgraded to ‘comfortable fit’ options, thanks to the almost immediate appearance of the gigantaboobs of pregnancy, but I’d been clinging to the thought that – even at five months pregnant – I was still slinky-hipped enough to wear my own jeans. It seems, however, that my transformation from human to beach ball has begun.

The next day everything’s back to normal. How confusing. Still, I think it may be time to start checking out the maternity section for a pair of pants that will allow me to breathe easily whatever my circumference, and won’t squish Bub just as he’s trying to stretch his tiny little legs.

To be honest, up until now I’ve been quite happy with my diminutive bump. Although I have, on occasion, fretted about its dimensions, on the whole I’ve been grateful to be spared much of the spontaneous tummy-touching that a generous belly seems to attract.

Of course, I don’t mind friends giving Bub an affectionate pat, but when nodding acquaintances start getting in on the act, it can be a bit alarming, especially if the tummy touch is unannounced. My first reaction is to suck my belly in and dive away, but that’s getting a little harder with each month that passes.

The only downside of having a small belly is that I don’t really look very pregnant. Naturally, people who knew me pre-pregnancy can see immediately what’s up, but others just think I ate all the pies – and when your look is more paunchy than pregnant, compliments are few and far between.

Sure, people may tell you that you’re blooming or that pregnancy suits you, but your sexiness rating takes a hard and sustained nosedive. Nobody tells you that you look sexy, mostly because you don’t. (The possible exception to this may be the father of the child you’re carrying, but in my case the less said about that the better.) So imagine my surprise to be on the receiving end of a host of compliments from a dashing young gentleman with the face of an angel and dimples to die for.

Honestly, if I were a few years younger, or he were a few years older, I’d have snapped the Divine One up like an oven-fresh muffin. Tall, dark and exceptionally handsome with a killer smile and – yes, those dimples – this young man is truly gorgeous. He’s also intelligent, erudite and charming. What’s not to like?

But even as I utter the words, “young man” you see the fly in the ointment: at just 25, the Divine One sits on the cusp of the lower of my speciality categories – the under 25s and over 55s.

If I’m honest, I find his attraction to me completely unfathomable; I’m older, wrinklier and rounder … none of which are characteristics a young man tends to look for in his ideal woman. And although he’s endlessly complimentary, I’m still not 100% sure he’s not just having a laugh at my expense.

Still, I’ve decided I’ll take his comments at face value, not least because it makes me feel good. And in the midst of worries about money, accommodation, employment and the Baby Daddy, feeling unreservedly good is a rare commodity to be nurtured and cherished. And even if I find it impossible to see how my increasing circumference qualifies me to be considered attractive, I’m more than happy to accept that someone else does.

Because even if I do say so myself, the fact that I feel like a slightly over-stuffed sausage is absolutely no reason for me to lose my sizzle. So bring on the flattery, Divine One, bring it on…