I am going to take a much more philosophical attitude to my predicament. If it is meant to happen it would happen. I’m not going to play God with syringes and temperature charts and injections. I must take note of the statistics. IVF does not work in a terrifying ninety-five per cent of cases and it is hideously, hideously expensive. Only a hundred years ago, scientists didn’t even know how babies were conceived! Of course, they knew how the outside bit worked, but they hadn’t a clue what really went on after that. And look what they get up to now. They take embryos in, out, fiddle them about without a second thought. Is that progress? It reminds me of the old joke—what’s the difference between God and a doctor? God doesn’t think He’s a doctor. Ha, ha. Or maybe not so funny anymore. It all sounds terrifying to me and yet I’m letting these men—and invariably they are men—tweak with all my internal bits and bobs in order to produce a baby for me. The scientists can now create a baby from an embryo that’s never been born itself and so we wander ever closer to Frankenstein territory. The ethical complications to all this tomfoolery are even starting to spook me.

Having a child is not the be-all and end-all to my existence. Not anymore. I’m not sure what is, but I’m about to embark on a voyage of discovery. I have to accept the fact that we all have demons and it’s up to the individual whether you keep them in control or let them control you. Mine are going to go back in their box and the lid is going to be battened down firmly.

There are a lot of scary-looking women at this gym. Women who look like Neve. Women with rippling biceps. Determined women pumping their arms like pistons. Women who do not look overly concerned with their ageing ovaries. I wonder if they’ll be like me in a few years’ time, turned soft with advancing years and having to redefine their role in life when they find the one they most want is suddenly not available to them. Anyway, I’m not going to think about babies. I’m going to give this treadmill what for and develop thighs that can crush walnuts.

I take a deep breath and get on the treadmill, pressing the big, red button marked START. It’s the sort of big red button that sets off bombs in James Bond movies. The treadmill starts to move and, rather tentatively, I start to march along with it. The treadmill picks up speed, slightly faster than I do. Am I really so out of condition? Ooo. Shit. I can’t walk that fast!