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with it,’ said another.

    ‘At six weeks most of them sleep through, although my Zara is already sleeping all night.’
    ‘You’re very highly strung, aren’t you, Krissie?’
    Worse still, they moaned on and on about their men, smugly oblivious to the fact I’d have given anything to have another adult in the house to talk to, to share the burden with, to love.
    But their men were apparently all useless lumps of lard who:
    Followed them around the house trying to get it, but they were not going to get it, oh no.
    Did not seem to understand that evening pints down the road were a thing of the past.
    Needed management, because they have no idea, honestly …
    Poor bastards. If I’d had a man to share nappies and arguments with, I was sure I’d be the anti-stereotype: grateful, loving, easy-ozy, and willing to give it, oh yes.
    They left just in time, because if they had stayed any longer I would have screamed even louder than their perfect, cretinous babies.
    *
    Mum was probably right about the postnatal depression, but I couldn’t or wouldn’t see it. I couldn’t see anything for the black cloud that had suddenly fogged my world.
    Six weeks came and went and there was no signof Robbie sleeping through. I’d go to bed and pray that he would, but he never did, and so neither did I. Instead I entered the dark hole of sleep- deprivation-psychosis where everything is dreich and miserable and pointless, even chocolate.
    My morning routine had changed from Lavazza and bath, both frothed, bright GMTV tidbits before leisurely stroll through architecturally exciting streets with trees, to dealing with crying peeing shitting leaking eating messing dressing messing and redressing.
    Zara’s mum – we no longer had names, we antenatal women, we were ‘Zara’s mum’ or ‘Beth’s mum’ or ‘Robbie’s mum’ – Zara’s mum phoned at this point and said not to worry if Robbie wasn’t sleeping well, because three months would definitely be a real turning point. Most of them ‘give back’ at three months and everything falls into place she assured me.
    At six months Robbie still did not give back, and I realised I didn’t even know what ‘giving back’ meant. I rang Zara’s mum to tell her this and she said, ‘Well at nine months things will be a lot better.’
    ‘I don’t believe you!’ I said. ‘You’ve lied to me twice already!’
    When she suggested I really should talk to someone, I said, ‘That’s what I’m doing, I’m talking to you , but what’s the use in talking to you if you’re just going to lie to me?’
    She hung up.
    *

    After another month of this I decided to go back to work and absolve myself of daytime responsibility. My increasingly anxious parents supported this decision and were happy to help out with Robbie, who they’d well and truly fallen in love with.
    Each morning when I arrived Mum and Dad would open the door and give me a hug, clearly worried about me, but not wanting to say anything to upset me. They had food and milk and proper care and attention at the ready, and I would hand Robbie over and cry all the way from Kenilworth Avenue to the Kingston Bridge.
    *
    It didn’t help, going back to work. First day back, I was dying to talk to Marj. As well as being a great pal to have lunch with, Marj had been my weekender, the chick I went out with on Saturdays, the one who thought I was the funniest girl she’d ever met, who’d always guffawed at my fabulous mock reasons for chucking boys, including:
    Peter Fischmann had an outie.
    Rob Bothwell spat his prune pips onto my plate.
    Giuseppe Conti did not have a car.
    Jimmy McGeogh gave an inappropriate standing ovation.
    Jonathon Miller was married.
    I sat down at lunch that first day and Marj made the mistake of asking how Robbie was. ‘Well, lastnight he slept from eight till ten, then woke to feed, and then slept from twelve to four-thirty, which wasn’t bad, but I couldn’t get back to sleep after that and ended up