It has happened. Whilst getting changed for bed last night, I leant forwards without the support of my trusty maternity bra and my boobs met my belly. I was greeted by that warm and slightly clammy feeling of soft flesh on flesh, which as someone with a slightly less than well stocked rack, I don’t usually get.

Man, is it hot?! It is HOT! Just to clarify, we are in a heatwave. It is officially the warmest June day since 1976. OK, so hottest, coldest, wettest, driest, windiest, cloudiest (etc.) records aren’t that unusual in recent times, but we still love to make a big thing of them. And what is more, we Brits love a good moan and the chance to revel in the novelty of sunshine in whatever way we see fit.

This week I had to go for a glucose tolerance test as a check for gestational diabetes, which involved fasting, blood tests and quite a lot of waiting around. Less fun than a trip to the seaside but perhaps more fun than colonic irrigation.

This week I am auditioning for the role of Oscar the Grouch. I am starting to get major pangs of impatience and this is making me a bit of a nightmare to live with. After 29 weeks it feels like I have been pregnant for an eternity. In fact, have I ever not been pregnant? Surely I’ve done my time. Having to go another 11, or jeez, maybe 13 more weeks seems pretty unfathomable at the moment.

In general, I am a big fan of a foot rub, but when pregnant it is my catnip. If you want to get on side, offer me a foot massage. Well, maybe only if you’re a licensed professional, otherwise it might be a bit weird. If you’re not a licensed professional, vouchers for establishments employing licensed professionals would be gratefully received. Just saying.

This week we have been living it up in the Isle of Wight. This is holidaying at its most intrepid. I would consider myself as reasonably well travelled and fairly adventurous on the whole, but since having our first son our passports have seen bugger all action. We've indulged in a long weekend in the new forest (ooh la la), another at the Suffolk Center Parcs (get us), and now we're jetting off to sunny Seaview, wait for it, for a whole week.

My Google search terms this week have been as follows: “waters breaking early”; “what does amniotic fluid smell like?”; “week 32 discharge”; “wet knickers in late pregnancy”. It turns out, my waters haven’t broken early and it is indeed quite normal to leak wee in late pregnancy. Oh good.

Brace yourselves for a Theresa May style U turn. I have decided that a homebirth would be the best option for me this time. Cough. Yes, yes, I know this is a little surprising based on previous expressions of opinion. After my week 16 midwife appointment I got all arsey about having a big pink sticker on my notes saying: “You are recommended to have a homebirth”.

My son is two today and this is strangely and unexpectedly very emotional. I feel joyful and proud of the little human he is, reflective and nostalgic that he’s no longer a baby, and somewhat euphoric for actually keeping him alive for two whole years.

Cot built. Check. Car seat installed. Check. Baby clothes washed and folded away. Check. Preparing for birth course completed. Check. We have just done a brilliant birth preparation course with LushTums and already I am feeling a lot more calm and positive about what's to come.

This week I have been frantically nesting, feeling an overwhelming urge to get organised. I have been scouring the house, tackling tasks that have been on the to-do list since January (it’s now August), and generally exhibiting mild obsessive compulsive disorder.

We've done it. We're there. 37 weeks. We have reached the point of watermelon. There are no more fruit based analogies on offer. The baby is now considered "full term". He's cooked and just plumping up in there, using the time to rest and relax, watch movies, read magazines, brush up on his French.

I think I have heard the word "no" approximately 8000 times today. My son is definitely on to us about this new baby lark and is having none of it this week. He's only two so it's easy for me to project in error, but I'm sure he is sensing that something odd is imminent.

I had a pedicure this morning, then a two hour nap. I am now eating a BBQ beef Hula Hoops sandwich — officially winning at maternity leave. I finished work on Friday after a rather frenzied scrabble to get everything I wanted done but have now made it to that dream state where you book in doing bugger all, allow yourself treats and pampering and put your feet up.

So today is my due date. Wow. But when I woke up this morning there were no fanfares, no fireworks, no balloons or bunting. No baby either. As I have read approximately 8000 times in my pregnancy apps over the past few weeks, only 4% of babies arrive on their due date, and so this day is of course fairly nominal. It is actually highly likely that it’s the one day I can relax, safe in the knowledge that I won’t go into labour.