‘Your wedding will seem so insignificant once you’ve given birth,’ Tara had told me, only half-joking, on the phone the other evening. ‘You thought marriage was a commitment? Honey, you will barely remember that day. Having a baby together supersedes everything. Having a baby is tough. It’s lucky you’re married to Jason because it makes it harder for either of you to leave. Planning a wedding is merely training for how organized you need to be when getting out of the house with a newborn. And don’t even get me started on leaving the house when you’re weaning. You don’t know what’s about to hit you. Mark. My. Words.’

In my living room, Helen had opted to sit on the floor with her legs crossed in a pretzel position. Presumably to demonstrate her suppleness – what your body was capable of if you got knocked up at 20, or whatever young age she was.

At 36, I was classified as a ‘geriatric’ mother. I hated this fact. It had influenced a midwife to ask me whether I was planning to opt for a caesarean birth, because she assumed I might be fearful of complications during a natural birth, due to my age. I certainly didn’t feel geriatric. But when it came to breastfeeding, I was definitely keen to give it a go, so I needed to pay attention.

Lin sat next to Susie who was in the middle of the sofa, with Lucy at the other end and I took the armchair. I was relieved that ‘Call me Mila’ was running the class, so thankfully we didn’t have Maggie and her vagina obsession to contend with again this evening. She seemed a much more reassuring teacher.

Mila talked us through the drill like a breastfeeding sergeant to our rookie battalion: ‘Tummy to mummy, nipple to nose, angle the dangle and – latch!’ The baby started kicking a lot during this part, and if I wasn’t mistaken, my nipples started to tingle as she repeated it over and over again, like a children’s nursery rhyme. I looked around the room, wondering whether anyone else was experiencing the same sensation, but they were all fastidiously making notes, writing down the song’s words. I wondered if Mila was frustrated at finding herself a breastfeeding tutor rather than a professional singer, as she had quite a good voice. She told us she had two children of her own and was full of anecdotes about how ‘breast is best’. Despite my initial fears, and a limited discussion around painful cracked nipples and mastitis, keeping a newborn alive via the boob sounded relatively straightforward. I had attended enough midwife appointments by now to know that breastfeeding might not come easily to us all, but that I was to try at all costs, or else. Or else what? The breastfeeding bobbies might come and arrest me?

Mila then talked us through the ‘rugby hold’, using the old doll that looked as though it had indeed been chucked around a rugby pitch. When Lin was handed the doll to hold in the correct ‘rugby hold’ fashion, she decided instead to cheekily throw it in my direction. I reacted swiftly, catching the doll with a skill to make any professional scrum half proud. Mila tutted loudly, disapproving of Lin’s joke, and Susie put a hand to her head in despair and mild embarrassment.