I went to a gig last night ... why am I lying? It's stupid. I went to a public meeting at the TUC building last night, at which there happened to be music, and the music there happened to be was by the folk artist Eliza Carthy, who is very pregnant. I identified with her strongly, because she looked fine from the front, but then from the side, especially when she danced, she looked like a sofa being electrocuted. What an amazing musician she is. Though if she were ever to read this, she wouldn't notice that bit, she'd just be thinking, "How dare that bitch call me a sofa?"

"I wonder if it's her first," I thought. "I'll ask her if it's her first" (in this alternative world, where not only am I at a gig, rather than a public meeting, but I am also backstage at a gig, talking to the musicians).

Why is it that whenever you meet a pregnant person, the first thing to spring out of your mouth is, "Is it your first?" And that is a genuine question: you authentically wish to know. It's not like pre-parenthood, where you ask, "What aren't you allowed to eat?" just to be polite, and then immediately lose interest. And by the time they're on to shellfish, you've switched off and they're just making a pregnant noise - and this, by the way, is why pregnant women feel invisible, because not only are they, they are also, to all practical purposes, inaudible.

Sorry, back to my enquiry - when you have been pregnant yourself, you want to know what number she is on. Why? The result is the same. Whatever happens, it's going to be another baby. It's not going to be a zither, and it's going to come out one of two ways. Midwives don't have some mysterious third option that they bring out for old hands. It's just so you can patronise them. Because, of course, unless you've had five yourself, you can't go up to someone on their second and go, "I'm sure you'll be fine. It's really easy. Well, no, maybe easy is the wrong word ..."

There are rules, here, people: really simple rules, but they're still rules. However many you've had, you can patronise the person who's on the one below, with the exception that if you've had one and you're talking to a twin-pregger, you're not allowed to patronise her because she's probably been breathless and ready to fall over since about week 12.

There is nothing you can tell her about labour, either, since you've only ever done it one at a time. It would be like trying to tell a footballer's girlfriend about sex. And actually, even if you have had five, and you meet a twin-pregger with one already, you still can't patronise her. All you can really do with someone carrying twins is make a nice, sympathetic face (though my mum likes to digest the news, and then go, "Fuck! What are you going to do?", like there's a whole raft of options - perhaps you could have them in instalments or cryogenically freeze yourself until they're older). While we're talking about twins, once they're born you're not allowed to say, "IVF?", even though, for some reason I can't put my finger on, when you see two babies of roughly the same age who aren't identical, that is all you want to know.

So back to our working model of condescending remark-making. You've had one baby (well, I have) and the person you're talking to is expecting her first, plus it's not a musician of renown (because you can't just accost a famous person, whatever her state of gestation. She's still famous). Now (phew!), you can say whatever you like. But what do you want to say?

I never really want to be honest about labour: on the one hand, it's really not that bad. In terms of what you get in return, it's the best deal in history. But on the other hand, it really is that bad, in terms of other bad things that will physically befall you in your life. This is the worst thing that'll happen to you until whatever it is that kills you, or at least you want to hope it is. So that's all off the table. And I don't want to go on and on about how wonderful it is at the beginning, because when you're pregnant, you're still technically a normal person, and this just sounds like goo.

So this is what I end up saying: "Aw, it'll be great." All that; all those calculations, that social tightrope, for "Aw. It'll be great."