On the first day of my maternity leave, I bought a garden hoe and attacked the weeds.

I also cleaned the car, dusted cobwebs out of the corners of the kitchen and sorted out a pile of post that has taken weeks, if not years, to accumulate.

This burst of energy could signal that I'm about to go into labour. I'm praying it doesn't.

My due date isn't for another three weeks and I still have some curtains to make and various lunch appointments I'm eager to keep.

In fact, I have been inundated with social invitations.

My friends obviously think they're running out of time in which to have some sort of decent, rational conversation with me before my brain turns into baby gloop.

Since they're probably right, I've been accepting everything that involves sitting down and eating a good meal.

My husband is regarding the next few weeks as a precious time too.

He has been suggesting various films we should see while we can still get a babysitter and has been wondering if I'm physically capable of a trip to London to look for a new coffee table (he is a little obsessed with this - and he doesn't even drink coffee).

I've told him that I'll be all right provided we take taxis everywhere and stop for cakes every two hours.

I know I should be relaxing with my feet up.

During my last few days at work, I just kept imagining how fabulous it would be to spend half the day on the sofa drinking hot chocolate and watching reruns of ER and old Doris Day movies.

But if I try doing this now, I feel hugely guilty for being idle and have to get up to clean windows.

It could also be that if I stop being busy, I start dwelling on the ordeal ahead.

My last experience of giving birth was pretty horrendous: Four days of intense contractions, followed by an emergency Caesarean section.

At the time I felt I was coping but I put a strain on those around me who were trying to help.

I'm sure my husband can still vividly recall walking up and down the hills of Brighton at 4am with me to try to speed up labour.

It didn't work. Nor did losing my temper and swearing at him.

Eventually I opted for some medical intervention and felt euphoric at the prospect of a large epidural needle going into my spine and relieving me of the agony I was in.

Four years later, however, I realise that the whole birthing process was the worst physical experience of my life - except, perhaps, my own birth and I'm not interested in any sort of therapy to relive that again.

I'm sure there's a good reason why we can't remember our own journey into this world.

People keep telling me that second labours are much easier and I've heard some joyous accounts of the whole process being over within just a couple of hours.

But then I hear disturbing tales experienced by women who have already had a clutch of kids. So now I don't know what to believe.

Anyway, hopefully I still have at least two weeks to go before anything starts happening.

And I still have things to do. This seems like a good opportunity to finally write my blockbuster novel.