Dear Bridget

That's great news for the rest of us. There's nothing more yawny than someone barking on about how many Emmental slices they've eaten (who cares?). You will no longer be a diet bore. Instead, you'll become a pregnancy bore - fretting that every twinge signifies something terrible, and whingeing that the nursery's not painted yet.

One aspect you will enjoy is all the attention you'll receive: as the first in your circle of friends to get knocked up, you'll be the star of the show (until, that is, everyone loses interest and finds you terribly dull when sober).

And what about the father?

The fact that you're being so cagey about his identity lends an edge of mystique to the proceedings. By the time the baby’s born, you’ll be living together. This doesn't mean blissful stability: naturally, you'll find plenty to worry about (does he still find you attractive with your poor, gnarled nipples? Will you ever resume your sex life? Will your beloved dump you for some single thirtysomething now you're a jumpery mother?). On the plus side, you'll do what whizzy, professional women call 'putting the career on hold' which means, in practical terms, not having to go into the office for absolutely ages. This will allow you acres of time to lie in bed with a bosom lolling out, fretting about your relationship.

Tom, your gay mate, will help to ground you - and be fantastic with your child. Those useless girlfriends of yours will not comprehend that you cannot bring the baby into wine bars. Don't worry: you can sit outside, jiggle the pram with your foot and still chuck back the Chardonnay. No guilt about poisoning your infant: you'll knock breastfeeding on the head after three months, figuring that a year on the wagon is quite enough for one lifetime.