Crikey, where does the time go? January has flown by in a haze of baby planning, parties and new job integration. I feel as if I’ve barely had a moment to myself and already it’s February.

Now, I know that the move from the flexible, freelance lifestyle to being firmly anchored in an office for most of the daylight hours has had an impact – a fairly sizeable, week-filling sort of an impact – but, if I’m honest, what’s making life completely and utterly hectic is the fact that I’m apparently unable to surrender any of my other activities.

From work I zoom to the gym, or to dance classes, or to dinner with a friend, finally arriving home at eleven o’clock and ready to crash into bed. At the weekend, I cram in the social engagements as if my life depended on it, arranging two or three coffee dates then one or more evening engagements, just in case boredom or solitude should set in.

In the whole of January, there were only three blank days in my diary.

Now, whilst this is all lovely, and I truly appreciate the chance to spend time with my friends, it’s also pretty exhausting. It would surely be exhausting even if I weren’t suffering from the kind of insomnia that sees me get no more than five hours’ kip, three nights a week. As it is, I’m starting to resemble a damp dishcloth.

So why on earth can’t I slow down?

Well, it’s partly because I’m only too aware that once Bub arrives, my social life’s going to be a whole lot leaner than at present. So I’m cramming it in while I can.

And it’s also because spending time alone at home allows me to start fretting about all the Bub-things I’ve yet to do/may forget to do/may never get round to doing.

And lastly, it’s because being home alone occasionally leaves me prey to feeling just a little bit sad and blue.

Whether it’s down to tiredness or hormones or whatever, the beatific bliss that has characterised most of pregnancy occasionally chooses to abandon me – just now and again – reminding me that Bub and I will be facing the world all on our ownsome.

And that’s when I think that if I were happily coupled up with some dashing young gentleman, we’d be moving in to a cosy family home any minute now, instead of contemplating babyhood in an (admittedly very pleasant) shared house. And that if we two were three, there’d be someone to turn to when I’m changing my 97th nappy and Bub is wailing the house down.

(Not that Bub is likely to do anything so uncouth as crying. He’s clearly not going to be that sort of baby…)

Still, when I feel like that, I just have to remind myself that I’m VERY lucky to have Bub, and that we’ll make a great team. And that, 99% of the time, things will be just fine. And that I have my family and friends around me, and that Bub already has a fanclub, even though he’s not even born.

Besides, things with the Baby Daddy are getting better: we managed to talk for almost a whole hour the other day without a cross word. On top of that, I’ve been enjoying some very pleasant coffee time with The Divine One, and Skype contact has been re-established with The Semi-suitable Man, who should be meeting up with us in summer, if all things go according to plan. So things could be far worse.

But best of all, it’s only nine weeks til I meet my little pud. And with the weeks passing like hours, that means he’ll be here in no time at all … and that really is a truly delicious thought.

Although I’ll miss his little head butting into my ribs, and his 4am wriggling and my inside-out belly button, I just can’t wait to welcome my little Bub to the world. Because even though it sometimes isn’t the way I’d want it, it’s still a bloody brilliant world and I can’t wait to show Bub all the fabulous things it has to offer.

So the time can fly, for all I care, and the negative thoughts can just sling their hook: whatever life throws at us, Team Bub is in the building and we’re going to take the world by storm!