On the credit side, I can come up with only two reasons, 1. If I had the baby, I could go through life with the faraway look of procreative superiority I had witnessed on so many multiparous women before, as if stashed away in some drawer at home I had a Mother Heroine medal or had been inducted into the Soviet Order of Maternal Glory. Oh yes, whatever little else I had not managed to achieve in my undistinguished life, I would still have managed the feat of bringing four souls into this depleted, overheating, overpopulated world, and would no longer be reduced to writing love from Mimi, Ralph, Mirabel, Casimir, Posy and Calypso at the bottom of the annual family Christmas card, as if I had four children rather than just three – i.e. half as many as most Notting Hill mothers – and a dog.

But that’s not a good reason, I recognize, so on to reason 2., which is a good one. We would all – especially Ralph of course, who dotes deeply on all the children in his understated English way – love the child.

Bringing the baby into the family would, on balance, increase the net amount of love in the world. And love – it’s the best reason of all. The only reason. Love is the one that blows all the others out of the water. Love, as that ad for Sandals on London cabs and at the bottom of my Daily Telegraph always reminds us, is all you need.

But still, this is clearly not good enough for Ralph. Ralph is taking a very pragmatic, very Martian line on all this, whereas I am all too clearly from Venus. I reach over to touch him, and his shoulder. He’s not asleep after all. His hand closes over mine. ‘Darling,’ he says, ‘please don’t try to make me change my mind. I’ve got to be very tough otherwise I will succumb to sentiment. Try to forgive me. Try to understand. But I’m not going to change my mind.’

Then he turns over to face the wall.

So, obviously, I can’t sleep a wink, and Ralph’s not talking to me (being fast asleep), so I creep downstairs, to sit by the fire and seek comfort in the Lakeland Plastics catalogue. The rain lashes the windows and I am leafing through, realizing I need not just one or two things, but everything. I need Antibacterial Freshcling in a cutter box. Anti-moth wardrobe freshener. Asparagus kettle.

The fire has died down to the embers, which are popping companionably. I grip the catalogue tightly, as it already seems to promise me a safer future, more organized and mumsy, in a better-equipped and tidier kitchen. I can see me now, making gravy in the insulated jug, possibly wearing the annoying apron saying ‘Danger, Men Cooking’ or wearing my freezer mitt to reorganize the fish-fingers while Posy works quietly on her Binky Bunny knitting kit.