Finally I’ve been offered a gig at Glastonbury Festival. I’ve wanted to play Glastonbury forever: even before stand-up, back when I didn’t have anything to play. Desperation like mine is why the triangle was invented and called an instrument. The only sticking point is that I’m due to give birth that week. I pointed out to my better half that Glastonbury is filled with ambulances because loads of people are overdosing but he didn’t look reassured. Even I know that I will spend the entire time peeing in a portaloo regretting the superhuman sense of smell that pregnancy bestows. I can’t do it. It’s only a great anecdote if nothing goes wrong. And things have already started to. I’ve sprained my sacroiliac joints. I didn’t even know I had sacroiliac joints. Two weeks ago I went to bed like the legend that I am and woke up unable to walk. I’ve been advised to keep my legs together. ‘That ship has sailed, doctor,’ I quipped. But my delivery was spoiled by my sobbing and I didn’t get the ovation I deserved. So this is it. A world where the sight of someone strolling easily along the street makes me weep bitter tears of envy. A world where I’m no longer in control of my body, my emotions, or my festival-going priorities. Motherhood: and I haven’t even given birth yet.Generally gig-wise pregnancy has been great. But the tick-tock of change is booming. Even the abortion jokes I’m killing with right now won’t make sense when I pop this sprog and my ripe belly is nothing but an empty sack I’ve had to neatly fold into a pair of corrective post-partum pants. The worst thing is I’m not even miserable about it. I’m happy. And I’m absurdly in love. I know it’s a hormone surge because I’ve read all about it but it feels real. I’m as convinced as a festival-goer high on life, that the world is beautiful, and it’s a joy to be a part of it. The real winner is my husband. He only has to scratch his head and my heart melts: for soon there will be a mini him to confuse with my tidal emotions too. For now, I am stuck in the flat, admiring the people nonchalantly passing beneath my window; as if their pelvic function is something they can take for granted.