When I was a week overdue with my second child (ironically named Harry), I did sort of go mad. Not Meghan-twerking-in-a-hospital-room crazy, but bonkers nonetheless.

I went into labour with my first child, a daughter, a day before her due date, and remained in denial until my husband finally persuaded me to go to the maternity ward, eight centimetres dilated.

But with my son, my due date came and went, along with my sanity. My father, a retired GP, recalls me calling him day and night, demanding to know why, in his medical opinion, the baby hadn’t arrived yet. It was undoubtedly the hardest seven days of all three pregnancies – including having to be induced with my third, another daughter.