NCT

We signed up to antenatal classes to learn what to expect, but everyone told us the best thing about it was meeting other people.

"People?" I pleaded to Spud. "Do we have to? I already know some people and they're awful."

And the first thing you do at NCT is a cringey meet and greet with everyone. No one wants to do it, everyone hates it.  But you soon find out that "people" are alright. They're a good bunch and they're in the same boat as you. The Oh Shit boat.

There's a lot of useful information in the classes, about 3% of which is retained. They're good at making the dads feel useful though, which is a very good trick indeed, because we are not.

"What is our role?" an eager dad asked. The answer was expansive, inclusive and comforting but basically boils down to this: bring the bag.

In actual fact there is nothing else you can do. Nothing. Luckily that's something I excel at. Isn’t nature wonderful?

They're very hot on breast-feeding at the NCT. It's what they’re made for, apparently. It was a good job I didn't put my hand up for that question. I'd only written down "Whipped Cream" and "Jiggling About."

In the months to come your new friends become invaluable. And by 'new friends' I don't mean your girlfriend's rapidly expanding boobicles. I mean all the mums, going through the same thing at the same time. You only have to mention your infant's latest quirk. "I'm a bit worried. He's started to make flying buttresses out of tortoise shells…" and someone will say: "Ooh! So has my little Lolita-Jane! She's loves a tortoise-shell flying buttress!"

Instantly you are comforted. Someone else has a child interested in construction from land-dwelling reptiles. It's normal. There's nothing to worry about.

The girls meet up once or twice a week, partly because they are desperate for human company that doesn't fill its underwear with its own waste.

They get together for coffee mornings, baby massage classes, baby sensory classes … I reckon if I invited them to 'Babies: Lightly sautéed with garlic and lemon. 10am, our place', they would all come. Some would be early. Some would bring cake.

I came downstairs one day to find eight women amid a cacophony.

"Ooh, a man!" someone shrieked. It was strangely intimidating. "I have feelings," I lied. "I'm not just a piece of meat!"

But they were too busy looking after babies to undress me with their eyes, unfortunately. I knew I should have worn a low-cut number. Or a nappy. 

I'll be ready for them next time.