I missed an appointment on Tuesday. It was for the hygienist, and it was the second I’d booked - and then missed - in 10 days. Despite writing it down in four different places (day planner, wall calendar, digital work calendar, personal diary on phone), I’d told myself it was happening an hour later than it was. The receptionist, by now, knows I am nine months pregnant and was wearily sympathetic. But in the midst of weeks filled with an unlikely combination of commitments (appearances on 6Music and last-minute contributors’ pages blurbs jostle across diaries with “NCT: Tit Talk”), it proved something of a final straw. I sat at the kitchen table and had a little cry about it, chastising myself as much for missing the appointment as for getting so upset.

I mentioned it to a friend who was emailing at the time, and a voicenote flew in immediately. Kind and pragmatic, she told me between gurgling laughs how when she was going through her divorce she locked herself out of her car three times in the space of two weeks, and also out of her house. “You’re going through a moment of transformation,” she said, referring to those two imminent things - the book and the baby, both out in a matter of days and weeks - “it’s fine to miss a hygienist appointment”.

This was a generous act and a generous take (I really like the hygienist! I don’t want to waste her time! And it costs money to miss appointments!) but it made me laugh and calmed me down. I called the receptionist back and booked back in for the next day (I made it). I googled “third trimester confusion” and felt slightly less deranged. I went outside, did an interview for the book (if you fancy pre-ordering, now would be a good time), and got on with my day.

Other good things this week:...