My life was about to change, all right, but not in the way I’d foreseen. I started squeaking like a lost kitten. My smile became unhinged. To make matters worse, the estimated date of conception that the doctor gave was vague enough that it could either be Harry’s or Brody’s.

Driving home on autopilot, my whole body felt numb. The realisation that life hasn’t quite turned out the way we thought it would hits us all at some point. It’s prompted by many things – a lover leaving, kids flying the nest, neighbours’ designer pool cabanas, and . . . falling accidentally fucking pregnant aged fucking fifty and not knowing who the fucking father is. I slammed the steering wheel with both hands. WTF? What the fuckity, fuckity, fuck? To keep it or not to keep it? That was the (insert pregnant pause) question.

I had no idea how to break the news to Harry. Maybe I could lessen the blow by telling him something much worse first, like, I dunno, ‘My mother’s moving in.’ But that would only give him a heart attack and mean a drive back to the medical centre. I decided not to tell him until I’d figured out what I was going to do. But when Harry opened a bottle of wine after he got home from work, the smell made me retch. Plus, I had a sudden craving for mashed potato. I gnawed away at bowls of the stuff like a barnyard animal – all under Harry’s watchful and wondering gaze. Next would be spaghetti sandwiches, Tim Tams and mustard, and ice cream on toast. We’d had two children – Harry would surely recognise the signs. It was pointless trying to keep it from him. And so, I reluctantly asked him to join me at the kitchen table so I could reveal the results of my test.

‘I’ve got something to tell you.’

‘I hope it’s that you’ve won twenty grand on a scratchie,’ he joked, nervously.

I wriggled in my chair and contemplated using my serviette as a balaclava. All I wanted to do was go and lie down in a cordoned-off chalk outline to see if it would fit.

But after I brusquely broke the news of my impending abortion, Harry took a beat, then emitted a joyful shout loud enough to be heard in an Antarctic base camp.

‘That’s friggin’ awesome!’ he exclaimed. I realised that, in his mind, pregnancy explained away my strange behaviour and mood swings. The relief he felt that my withdrawal was biological and not psychological was seismic in its immensity.

‘But I’m not going to keep it, Harry,’ I added, gravely. ‘Of course I’m not. It’s more likely that my mother would release a death metal album than it is that I would keep this baby.’