A year ago this week the main things on my mind were my friend's upcoming birthday bash and a pair of black high boots I'd seen in Top Shop.
Just three hundred and sixty-five days later, booze has been replaced by SMA Gold and boots with Huggies.
For just two weeks after that birthday bash I was pregnant/expecting/with child/up the duff, whichever term you prefer.
That was the last time I had a sniff of alcohol and probably the last time I would have been able to buy myself something without feeling guilty.
The upshot - nine weeks ago I went into Great Western Hospital alone and looking like Jabba the Hut and came out (still looking like Jabba) but with a baby/little bundle of joy/ankle biter.
In a way it seems strange to write a blog about becoming a new mum.
I'd say it's pretty daft really, because every day brings a new 'challenge' that invariably makes you feel like an idiot/useless/like banging your head against a brick wall.

The reason for this blog, I suppose, is maybe to make me laugh at some of the dramas I'm going through. Who knows, it may also help a few other prospective parents from feeling they are the only mental people at the mother and baby class.


Don't get me wrong, having a baby is ace and I love her to death, but a year ago I was a relatively successful writer. I was confident, bright, breezy and not fazed by a lot of things.
Now I fret about whether I'm using enough Sudocreme on her bottom and cry at the X Factor!
In the words of my husband, I've turned into a "bit of a sap".
The reason for this blog, I suppose, is maybe to make me laugh at some of the dramas I'm going through. Who knows, it may also help a few other prospective parents from feeling they are the only mental people at the mother and baby class.
And of course, when little'un turns 15 and says those immortal words: "I hate you - I was adopted!" I can say: "Actually you weren't and, this proves it - so get and tidy your room, you little tyke."
Well, here goes....
One of the first things that happens when you get the little'un home from hospital is the visit from the midwife.
Being the tidy freak I am, I was up two hours before she arrived to make sure the baby was clean, the house was hoovered and smelling of Pledge - needless to say I was absolutely knackered by the time she arrived.
"She doesn't expect you to tidy," said himself. "She just wants to see you and the baby are ok - You're behaving like that woman Bucket off the telly."
Sure enough she didn't seem impressed at all by my efforts, but she was nice anyway and weighed the baby and asked if I was ok.
"Tell her about the bedroom antics," suggested dumb dumb husband
Midwife thought we were asking about contraception, (embarrassed silence) but I explained that: "No, I've just been having a few weird dreams."
"Weird! yeah mental more like," says himself, helpfully.
"Actually," I tell her a little too defensively, "I woke up first night home at the wrong end of the bed with him asking: 'What the hell are you doing?'"
Turns out I was looking in the quilt for the baby, who of course was tucked up safe and sleeping in her moses basket next to the bed.
I laughed it off - lack of sleep can do weird things to you. Trouble is, eight weeks on and I'm still doing it - every night. Himself has even woken up to find me patting him on the head and asking, is that you?
Some new mum on Coronation Street has just been carted off to the loony bin with post natal depression.
I've not unpacked my hospital bag, just in case the men in white coats call. But frankly, it's no laughing matter.
Midwife said it was natuaral though, just hormones, apparently.
"See!" I say to himself, "I'm not nuts!"
But he doesn't seem convinced...