This afternoon I happened to catch part of Jeremy Vine’s show on Radio 2, wherein he and his resident GP Sarah Jarvis were discussing the proposed changes to the law to allow women the legal right to breastfeed in public. I am so annoyed.

I find it very poor that the only airtime this subject gets is to bring all those reactionary Mail readers out of the woodwork, to pronounce on how revolting they find it to have to eat in a restaurant next to a woman who is breastfeeding her baby. This is not new and it is not news. I accept that such people have the right to their opinion, but it seems irresponsible of JV to broadcast that opinion, apparently with the support of a doctor who is normally an advocate of women’s issues.

To be fair to Sarah Jarvis, she was clearly in favour of breastfeeding in general, but what a wimp! Her response to the outcry was that it might be better if women did express and bottlefeed, so that those poor small-minded cretins who are offended by the female breast (in this context) might be spared the sight of a child being fed in a perfectly natural way. There are so many reasons why this is wrong, and here are three of them:

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It’s late, and the last of the lovely people have just left, after both Chinese and Indian takeaways eaten on our knees. I am about to go to sleep but just wanted to record something on Bernard’s first birthday. I am relieved, not so much that the birthday party is over, but that it went so well. We managed to mix family, Real Friends, and online people, without too much discomfort as far as I could tell (although sometimes it is hard to see what’s happening for other people when you have a small child climbing up your jeans).

Bernard is one year old today. We have made it to a year without dropping him on his head. I am so proud of us. It has been the shortest, hardest year of my life, and so much of the old order has simply had to go by the wayside. I can’t remember what things were like pre-parenthood, and I’m feeling a little bit sad tonight that we have dropped out of favour with some of our childless friends, who find us boringly obsessed with our offspring. Unfortunately that isn’t going to change; his needs are always going to come first; he is the sun around which I orbit. Also it’s hard to carry on an adult conversation about someone’s career and holiday plans when your little one is systematically ditching his meal on to a pub carpet.

But today he was the centre of everyone’s universe, because it was his day, and he was so very well-behaved and chilled about the crowd of adults (and handful of children) invading his premises. There was constant noise and cuddles and toys and balloons and food and an amazing dinosaur-dragon-tortoise-fish cake to give him his first taste of chocolate, which he liked. Even without an afternoon nap, he kept his temper all day, and politely gave everyone the attention they demanded from him. He seemed to take a particular liking to Adrian Sevitz, who can now tell girls that he is good with children.

Everyone who’s anyone has a Bernard ringtone now: bibble bibble bibble.

Out of my group of ten ante-natal friends, four are now pregnant with number two. My best buddy Alice is due at Christmas, and starting to worry about how to persuade Stan to make room in the bed and at the boob, for his sibling-to-be.

This is the school of thought that if you want a family of more, rather than an Only Bernard, then it’s best to get it over with. Do it before you get your sleep back, while you still own all the equipment and can benefit from the super-steep learning curve of the first few months of parenthood. It makes some sense. Once your child has started sleeping through [hah!], I don’t know how anyone could actively and willingly decide to go back into the zone. Perhaps, like labour, you forget what it was like.

So Pete and I had the discussion.

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My head gets fuzzier and fuzzier. I am sick. Once again, Bernard has brought home some sort of nasty bug, and shared it with me. He still has a rattling cough, but mine is worse; apparently breastfeeding doesn’t armour him against infections, but does help him to get over them comparatively quickly. Still, if he felt half as bad as I do, then he’s a stoic little chap really.

It’s muggy in here and I’m fed up of looking at the screen, batting emails across the world to people with unrealistic expectations and impossible demands. Every day there is some new annoyance, some surprising turn-up like we don’t have any interpreters in France, or I’ve failed to notice inch-high letters on a fax informing me that we can’t do something that I’ve planned to do anyway.

Meanwhile people are overcharging me for postage on eBay; surely that should be stopped? Maybe I will start a facebook group about it. That’ll show ‘em. Bernard’s childminder keeps giving him lunch in unsuitable places like the pub and the cafe at Asda. We have to be in Hook by 7.30 on Friday, leaving him with a babysitter for the first time; it seems very unlikely that we will make it.

I have a party to plan, with the added complication of children. I have never had a party with children at it before. What will they want to do? Is the house safe for them? Can they eat proper food? Will everyone leave before I collapse with exhaustion? Three of my antenatal friends are already pregnant with their next baby. Madness. Utter madness.

I’m still having nightmares about weeping angels.