Like all first-timers I didn’t know how bad the pain would get, but I did know I wasn’t having an epidural. No way. Don’t confuse me with a faith-in-nature mummy, my decision was wholly based on the fear of being paralysed. Whilst I objectively know that epidurals are safe, the idea that I wouldn’t be able to move my legs, run if there was a fire, or wee to order, was more terrifying than the fear of pain. So that aspect was sorted. No needles in the spine. But . . . my first baby was OP (occipito posterior or back-to-back). This means he was looking up, not down. It also means, anecdotally, that the labour is very painful as all the contractions go up your back. I spent most of the first part of labour on tiptoes trying to get away from them (if that makes any sense). The other irritating characteristic of an OP labour is that the contractions aren’t regular as the baby’s head doesn’t press evenly on the cervix. They were two minutes apart and then twenty, and then back to three. As the pain worsened, the midwives explained that the baby had to turn or he’d get stuck. No one explained that to the baby. I was getting tired and probably near transition when it all got a bit much, not helped by burning calf muscles thanks to the tiptoes. The gas and air wasn’t enough, so having rejected the epidural, I was offered pethidine. Heaven. I gather it doesn’t suit everyone but it suited me very nicely. I became much more able to deal with the contractions, and in between was positively jolly. Some time during the pushing, I took away the mask to report ‘I’m quite enjoying this’. Oscar arrived, face down, having turned on his way out. My husband cried. I was more interested in the tea and toast.

When I went into labour with my second baby I was already looking forward to the injection of pethidine. Knowing there was a tried and tested way through labour made it less forbidding. Once again the baby was OP. Once again it refused to turn. Once again there was the threat of either a C-section or a stuck baby. I asked for pethidine. The midwife wasn’t mad keen on giving it to me. I don’t know whether it was a change in policy, as it can effect the baby’s respiration, or the timing, but I wanted my pethidine. Luckily she realised I’d go to pieces without it and it duly arrived. This time I punctuated my gasps of gas and air with nonsense. Nobody seemed bothered as it was very good-natured nonsense. Felix slid out. My husband cried. The tea was once again, delicious.

The third labour was the same. OP. Pethidine. Dad crying. Tea. Except it was a daughter.

I loved giving birth. And I love watching One Born Every Minute and cry every time a baby is born. I keep trying to persuade my daughter that being a midwife would be a nice job – they get to drink quite a lot of tea.

As a Radio 4 devotee I’m completely detached from all music trends, except when something up to date gets selected for Desert Island Discs. No wonder then that I haven’t been to the O2 to see Rihanna or whoever else treads the boards these days. (I realise I sound like an octogenarian.) But on Friday I finally made it to the arena to watch tennis. I booked on line (is there any other way?) and picked my seat using the map provided. I was in Row EE. Fine. Clutching the tickets my friend and I made our way through Gate H, Level 1, Entrance 106, and hurriedly looked for our seats. We went down, and down, and down. I tried to oust someone out of his seat in Row E, assuming there was a misprint on the tickets. “No,” he assured me. “EE is at the front.” Crikey. How I managed to book the front row without realising no one will ever know but it was a wonderful surprise. We had an excellent vantage point. I did rather better than the line judge on our side, helpfully calling “Out” at various moments of high drama. We watched Doubles and then Djokovic. The crowd warmed to the battle between the two Serbs, his opponent being Tipsarevic. The world No. 1 was the loser, but the match was fantastic. And my impression of the stadium – well, it’s not Wimbledon, but for winter tennis, perfectly fine, except for the irritating TV screens announcing BREAK POINT and ACE. We’re tennis fans, we don’t need subtitles.

When my pal and I went to Barcelona we loved those little bread things with deli stuff on top. One evening we stopped for a Cava and munchies at a bar with the most fantastic display of what I think are called pinchitos. The deal was that you eat as many as you like and pay based on how many cocktail sticks are left on your plate, as each has a stick securing the delights to the bread. They brought out hot spicy sausage ones, pork and something ones and much more. Divine. I decided to have a go myself. Hot things were too tricky for me to tackle as I’d already committed to a beef and pepper stew and almond torte. So here is my display.

Pate and Mum’s 2007 pickle.

Manchego and sun-dried tomatoes.

Parma ham, pesto and black olive.

The general consensus was that they were very nice, but by making six each I hadn’t left room for the previously mentioned stew etc. No matter. I’ve got the idea. Next time there’ll be hot options. Pinchitos rule.

The Cairngorm reindeer have travelled all the way from Scotland to Bristol. My oldest son spent the summer working with them and looks pretty happy to be reunited with them today. Not sure how happy he is about the jumper they’ve given him for the festive celebrations that kick off today at Cribbs Causeway with the ice rink opening. Later on all the family are going up to gawp at him. Probably won’t don any skates though. Doesn’t seem right at 15C.