Clearly 104 days was enough. As it happens, I was asked on Friday if I have any plans for the weekend, and I replied that having spent the past two weekends preparing the flat for a baby, I could chillax for a couple of days, and enjoy a bit of me-time. So naturally I've had my busiest Saturday in months.

On paper (and I don't mean my 'To Do' list), it should have been a relaxing day. My parents kindly offered to have Amelie, so that Lisa could stretch out like a starfish who's swallowed a beach ball, and balance out her inability to sleep at night, by failing to sleep during the day. So while Lisa was incubating a baby in bed, and Amelie was leading my parents a merry dance...


... I should have been living the life of a single man about town.

Instead, I was cleaning the bathroom. On one of her early morning shuffles to the toilet, Lisa gently pointed out to me that due to her being the size of a house, and unable to touch her toes without a barge pole, the kitchen and bathroom haven't been cleaned in a dog's age, and are liable to be harbouring the kind of lethal bacteria that could kill a baby within seconds. Apparently Amelie now refuses to enter the kitchen without her slippers, because the floor's so filthy. Which is a bit rich coming from the sofa crumb queen.

So having looked longingly at all the DVDs I haven't watched, and the copy of Fallout 3 I bought for two quid in a charity shop, I opted instead for a pair of rubber gloves and a bottle of Cillit Bang.

Obviously, if a job's worth doing, it's worth doing for the whole bloody day, until you're fit to drop. I've done so much cleaning, I've developed breathing problems from all the chemicals. I even scrubbed the walls. It'll be more pleasant when I'm climbing them. The bathroom mirror is so well-polished, you can see your face in it, and as for the bath, it's now so clean, you could perform major surgery in the tub without fear of MRSA. Or failing that, deliver a baby on the floor. If we weren't ready for the birth last week, I think we are now.