The one year old is indulging in her favourite hobbies of leaping into the dog’s bed and destroying the sky box. The man of the house, who cherishes the sly box considerably more than I do, is fiddling with his car. I have a newspaper I have yet to open, a burning desire to lie down and a nagging worry I’ve the back pain that won’t go away but am obliged to chase the offspring from misdemeanour to misdemeanour. So far, this pregnancy has brought more stress Nd illness than the first and I wonder if it is a natural result of being pregnant with a small and persistent child or if it is the pregnancy itself. Sympathy is not forthcoming from the man of the house, who maintains a jaw dropping denial of what is going on and even the dog feels entitled to my pity and support for the fact that the small one had stolen his toy for the umpteenth time this morning.