My hopes that this baby would arrive early have been dashed.

And with just 24 hours to go before my due date, it doesn't seem likely it's going to be punctual either.

In fact, don't be surprised if next Saturday you find me still droning on about the trials of being pregnant. I've a feeling this is going to something of a long-haul experience.

So, what has happened since last week? Not a lot is the short answer. It's the response I have to give at least twice a day to the friends, relatives and other interested parties that keep phoning up to see if there's any news.

My mum and dad have been the most persistent offenders on this score. My mother can't bear to let more than six hours lapse before she's on the blower to me again to ask if everything is fine. In between making her calls, she gets my dad to phone.

"What can I say?" I say in exasperation. "I am still pregnant. But you will be the first to hear, I promise."

"Should we cancel our dinner party on Saturday, you know, just in case?" starts my mum, referring to an obligation she arranged months ago.

"No!" I tell her. "It probably won't happen on my due date. And anyway, it would be unfair on your guests, who've probably starved themselves for the past week to prepare for one of your banquets."

I can understand my parents' concern but it really doesn't help matters. They did the same when I was pregnant with Eve four years ago.

At the time I made the mistake of letting my mum know when my contractions had begun. It was a bad move because she turned up at the hospital in an anxious state and needed as much reassurance by the nursing staff that things were going to be all right (even when it reached the emergency Caesarean section stage) as my husband and I did.

Mothers, as midwives have since told me, are not ideal birthing partners. They can't bear to see their babies in pain.

I am hopeful that the experience this time will be more pleasant and that I shall sail through the whole thing with little more than two paracetamol and a gentle back rub.

I've heard that if you visualise giving birth as a positive experience, that's how it will be. I once interviewed a woman who described her labour as being as pleasurable as making love. Or was it that she found making love as horrible as giving birth? I forget which now. Perhaps that's not such a useful example.

Anyway, I'm convincing myself that looking forward to the event, rather than dreading it, will encourage things to happen much sooner. I've heard another theory that says babies go overdue until they know the environment is safe for them to enter.

I keep telling this one we've got clearance for landing. I've washed and bleached the entire house. I've ironed everything in sight. I've reassembled a variety of prams, car seats and baby bouncers.

And I'm at peace with myself and at one with the world. Conditions could not be more perfect.

Besides, I add, its father (my husband) is entitled to a week's paternity leave as and when I go into labour and he has booked another two weeks off work for the middle of May. If the baby wants to make the most of the early bonding opportunities, appearing now would be hugely convenient.

In the meantime, I'm taking the phone off the hook.