When I was 29 I used to joke that I was an international woman of mystery, a playgirl who pops over to the Caribbean, runs away to sea with handsome French men, adventures fearlessly through the jungles of Malaysia, and thinks nothing of a little sabbatical in the wilds of Alaska.
Now I am a heavily pregnant 30 year old with a belly of epic proportions, temporarily stuck living with my parents on a distinctly non-epic residential street which lies on the outskirts of a slightly dismal West Midlands town populated in most part by OAPs and townies. I am single (through choice) and my biggest adventure of last week was a trip to Mothercare to purchase breast pads and nipple cream.
This time 2 years ago I was drinking cold Coronas, sporting a lovely tan, hanging in my favourite bikini on the back of a speedboat moored in the turquoise waters of Grand Cayman. Now I am sipping my decaf tea and deciding whether to watch the X Factor or the BBC's Sunday night period drama. How times have changed. It only took one heady night of careless passion and I was obliged to hang up my well-travelled flip flops and sarong in favour of sensible shoes and maternity knickers.
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