My heart starts to beat quite loudly. At thirty-eight and a half, I feel myself willing the thin blue line to appear, just to show him that despite advanced age – after all, if this was the Middle Ages I would have been dead years ago – my body is still capable of fruiting in the twilight of its fertility, just as some ancient gnarled poirier can suddenly produce one perfect, round, juicy pear in the autumn of its years.

Then, suddenly all cheerful, he smacks his thighs, as if he remembers something, and is making a heroically gentlemanly effort to fill the uncomfortable interlude before we have a result.

‘Now then, I’ve been meaning to ask… how’s Trumpet?’ he asks, rubbing his big, hairy hands together, before using one spongy forefinger to probe an ear.

‘I don’t know,’ I say, honestly. Not being at one with the equine kingdom, it’s quite hard for me to tell what Trumpet, although a docile enough little beast, enjoys and doesn’t enjoy.

Dr Ashburton in reply starts to do that violent waggling thing men do with their forefinger in their ear, as if trying to dislodge a marble stuck inside their brains. I get the distinct feeling that for Dr Ashburton, who has small children of Trumpet-appropriate ages, the subject of my pony is not closed. He gets up hurriedly, and goes over to peer at the stick.

‘Mmm,’ he says. ‘Any idea how it happened?’

I look at him, mouth agape. I suddenly find it hard to breathe. It’s not clear whether the doctor has led a spectacularly sheltered life, or wants gory details of the actual act itself.

‘I presume you have a coil,’ he goes on. ‘Most women in their, um, of your age find they get on with them, especially the Mirena, reasonably well.’

‘No I don’t,’ I say.

‘So what are you going to do?’ he asks, his pen hovering.

‘That’s my business, Dr Ashburton,’ I reply, putting on my Husky, in a tone of voice designed to remind him firmly of his Hippocratic oath and that I would be most displeased if my happy news was all around the village by nightfall. ‘Thank you very much.’

When I get home, hugging my secret, the phone’s ringing.

Ana is sitting at the computer, her diary open, taking down stuff from the web. I rush to the phone before it stops, shouting, ‘Ana! Quick! Answer the phone! Quick!’

‘Yes?’ says Ana, looking up.

‘The telephone!’ I screech.

As I lift the receiver I make a mental note to check her history directory to see which websites she’s been visiting. I have a funny feeling. Just to check.

‘Mimi?’ come crisp, American, can-do tones. ‘It’s Catherine Cobb. Is this a good time?’