My enthusiasm to get things sorted at the start of my maternity leave three weeks ago has now fizzled out and all I want is to go into labour.

The chances of this happening this weekend are a little unlikely, however. I still have a week to go before my due date and there's no sign yet that the baby is about to put in an appearance.

It wouldn't be so bad if I didn't find everything so exhausting. By the time I've got myself out of bed in the morning and washed and dressed, I'm ready for another nap.

Afterwards I wander around the house thinking that if only I could bend down, I could pick up some of the debris left behind by our four-year-old, Eve.

Or I look at the windows and consider that, if only I could trust myself not to break another chair (two have snapped under me in the past three months), I could try cleaning the upper reaches. In the end, I settle for dusting anything at waist level.

Occasionally I leave the house for a change of scene. But then I attract a lot of unwanted attention.

I receive alarmed looks from shopkeepers, who are clearly wondering if their knowledge of first aid would be any use should I start having contractions, or what sort of mess I might create should things happen rather more quickly.

I also get strangers wanting to tell me the horrors of their own going-into-labour experiences. One woman was on her way down to the air raid shelter during the Blitz when her waters broke. I doubt I'll be able to compete with that.

And young children keep poking my stomach and asking in loud, shrill voices: "Is there a baby in there, or are you just VERY FAT?"

Actually, I'm both. I reckon the bump is 50 per cent baby and 50 per cent Hagen Dazs Belgian chocolate ice cream.

The recent warm weather, lovely though it is, has been a little uncomfortable for my pregnant bulk. My feet have swollen up so much that the only outdoor footwear I find comfortable is a pair of wellies.

The trouble is, once they're on, I can't get them off. They also look a bit odd with my floral maternity skirt, although I could be starting a trend.

By the evening, even if I've had two or three naps during the day, all I want to do is lie full stretch on the sofa and doze in front of the telly. I am charming company.

My husband and I have attempted a few nights out to make the most of these last evenings of relative freedom. But they haven't been wholly successful.

I was an embarrassment in the cinema when my snoring was, apparently, louder than the soundtrack to Ocean's Eleven. I then couldn't get my shoes back on (having decided that wellies would be inappropriate evening wear) and had to lie on the floor while my husband struggled to stretch the leather over my puffy extremities.

I have moaned so much about physical ailments during the pregnancy that my husband, understandably, is worried about the negative effect this may be having on our unborn child.

"Can't you be a little more positive?" he suggests, "Positive?" I snarl. "It was being positive that got me in this state."

Don't worry. I'll be fine when the baby has arrived and my toes are back to normal.