I'm standing in front of the bedroom mirror, seven months pregnant, attempting to find something - anything - to wear in a wardrobe stuffed with unyielding size 8 silk frippery (damn you Marc Jacobs. And damn your deceptively un-stretchy bias cuts). "I look like an egg!" I wail in Mr Laverne's general direction. "That's OK," he trills back helpfully, "you kind of are an egg!" Welcome to the world of pregnancy, my friends.

Used to being a host, I have become The Host - second in every respect to the small lodger housed behind my navel. The Bean, as we have called the little fellow since we found out he existed and he still resembled one, became captain of our mutual vessel that fateful Sunday morning when the thin, pink line appeared on the pregnancy test and I discovered that I wasn't just extra-hungover from the Brits; I abdicated my position in the driving seat and began stalking through my life under foetal control, systematically laying waste to all the habits, hobbies, tenets and styling options I had previously held dear.

Cocktails, hotpants and watching anything with a post-nine o'clock start-time were first to go. My grip on current affairs was next. The trouble is, when you're pregnant, real news updates, such as "Brown succeeds Blair", immediately become substantially less interesting than baby news updates, one of email's greatest gifts ("Week 13 - Your baby is urinating!"). It's as if the assertive tones of Sky News's Anna Botting have been overdubbed by Charlie Brown's teacher. And you're watching the whole thing through the wrong end of a telescope. I call this the Baby K-Hole, and it's something you can slip into at any time. One moment you're chatting to the chief exec of your company, the next you are in deeply meditative contemplation about the respective merits of the Bugaboo Chameleon and Gecko.

All of this, I fear, is no news to those of you who have already been through it. Perhaps you're reading this with a wry smile. A wry smile and possibly a small amount of organic baby rice mashed into your hair that you have yet to notice. If so, listen carefully, because it is to you - the Already Parents - that my next plea is directed: PLEASE STOP TORTURING ME. You see, the Baby Dictatorship may be led by our baldly glorious foetal overlord but the Already Parents are his henchmen. The Bean's expression of his awesome power is currently limited to kicks and stamps. He is, for the moment, mute. Unhappily, friends and colleagues with children are eager to speak on his behalf, issuing a bewildering stream of contradictory edicts, all of which must be followed to the letter, preferably starting six months ago.

Just a small selection of these utter bastards' recent hints, tips and interrogations: unsolicited anti-stretch mark advice from a fiftysomething cab driver; friends opining that to engage in any paid work after the sixth month of pregnancy and before The Bean's adolescence is the acme of selfishness and will surely lead to him being on smack by primary school; and - most ignominious of all - work acquaintances enquiring exactly how I plan to give birth (what is the correct lunch-break reply to this casual query? "Well, Alison, I was hoping to squeeze the child out of what seems to me to be a woefully inadequate vaginal aperture. And how are you?). Naturally, the cruel flipside of the Baby K-Hole is that every remark pertaining to your unborn is so impossible to forget, it may as well be burned on to your skin with lasers.

The irony, of course, is that I am entirely complicit. People's advice gets to me because I allow it to. Mr Laverne and I willingly placed The Bean at the very centre of our universe before he even grew fingers. Who are we to blame if he now drums them together in a Dr Evil fashion, knowing that our happiness is entirely determined by him? The most sobering summary of the whole deal came from a friend's mother: when her daughter called in tears at 10 weeks' gestation, begging, "When will I stop worrying all the time?" she chirpily responded, "This is your life now!"

The Littlest Hobo ending to this, though, is that being pregnant has taught me valuable lessons. I swear that when The Bean finally makes his entrance into the world I will never give pregnant pals my two penn'orth unless they request it, even if I have to wear a bridle to afternoon tea. I've experienced the weird social-pariah status foisted upon those who choose sobriety, whereby all your inebriated friends avoid talking to you so as not to make fools of themselves; or talk to you about how brilliant being teetotal is, and how they really should try it for a while, thus making you feel simultaneously left out and disgusted. I've realised how pointlessly narcissistic it is to complain about being too fat when your waist measures less than six inches more than your head. I've vacated the small patch of moral high ground I inhabited, and last week I bought (whisper it) a Land Rover. After casting my eyes to the heavens in a silent gesture of "What have I become?" I glanced back down at my boot-space and Isofix baby seat and was sated. Besides, it's diesel.

And that's the brilliant thing about not being mistress of my own destiny any more. I never know where this crazy ride will take me next. My adventures with The Bean have only just begun, and when I think about all the cool things we can see and do together I don't even mind being his servile sidekick. It's 11 weeks until B-Day and, while I may be feeling more Humpty Dumpty-like than ever, at least my car's got a five-star NCAP safety rating to protect my eggy frame. Probably just as well - the driver is most definitely underage.

· Lauren Laverne presents The Culture Show on BBC2. Catherine Bennett is away.

· This week Lauren listened to the music of Figurines: "They sound like the Pixies would if they persuaded Neil Young to join the band and start singing all fast." She read Charles Dickens' The Old Curiosity Shop, after realising she had only watched the glossy ITV adaptations: "Despite occasionally mentally casting David Jason in the lead role, I am very much enjoying the book."