It was one of my children’s sixth birthday the other day. I asked his mother about my son’s arrival. It didn’t go well. I mean the conversation, not the birth. Because it soon became clear that I couldn’t remember a thing about it. “How can you not remember that?” she asked, not uncrossly. I think the reason is that I found the whole experience so stressful and terrifying that I’ve deleted it from my memory. I’ve enjoyed what’s happened since – you know, parenting – but not the birth itself. (Apparently that didn’t go well either, there were some complications, induction, a ventouse, tearing … you didn’t need to know that, did you? Erase it.)

It’s not just the birth of my own children that stresses me out. I don’t enjoy other people’s, either. Worrying about things going wrong and the potential for tragedy eclipses all the joy of procreation. One Born Every Minute makes me physically tense.

This series is filmed in Birmingham women’s hospital, so there’s a nice Brummieness to it now. A birth with Brummie accents is preferable; everyone should insist on it. Put it on the birth plan regardless of your location.

First up are Rav and Sharon. They have got a nice story. Rav was expecting to have an arranged marriage, but then he met Sharon at work, where he was night manager. They ended up having a cheeky kiss in the security room and later fell for each other, quite hard. There was a problem though: Rav’s from the wrong caste, a lower one than Sharon and her parents weren’t happy about the match ... until they met him, and fell for him, too.

We catch up with her when her waters have broken and she’s having contractions. And I’m feeling that sick, tight tension in my stomach again. Never mind, Sharon, I’ll take some gas and air please.

It’s brave of her to have this intense, personal experience laid bare for the nation. Very bare, in fact, even with the pixelation. I’d have opted for extra pixelation on the birth plan, along with the gas and air and accents.

Oh, that was quick and relatively easy (again, I mean for me). It – she, Reeva, 6lb 10oz (why imperial measures still for baby weight?) – is here. Turns out she’s a genius, she’s already written Rav a thank you card, thank you for being my daddy. That could be another Channel 4 idea, Baby Genius. Whose caste does Reeva take I wonder? Hopefully it won’t matter at all when it’s her time to get hitched.

Anyway, there’s no time to get to know Reeva. Because it’s straight on to the next birth and this one looks potentially more problematic.

Samantha had leukemia as a child and was told she might never have children herself. But after three years of trying with husband Tony, she got pregnant. The baby was premature, though – 25 weeks – and there were further complications and they lost her. Little Victoria. Oh God, I cannot even begin to imagine. Harriet the midwife also had cancer, when she was pregnant. It worked out fine, but it has given her an extra layer of compassion, she says. Harriet’s brilliant.

Samantha has had another baby, a healthy boy, since. But, still, everyone at BWH is on high alert today, Tony’s a wreck, I’m a wreck, cancel the gas and air, make mine an epidural. Double. Whose ridiculous idea was it to put this on TV? The baby is born and it is fine. But Samantha has suffered severe blood loss, and the emergency buzzer is pressed; in they come, the Swat team, and Samantha is rushed to theatre, oh God …

Cut to later. Tony is at home on the sofa feeding baby Arthur with a bottle. But where is Samantha? Here she is, coming in through the door and all is well. No, I’m sorry, they can’t do that – well, they can, and they did, but they shouldn’t have done. It’s not as if we’re talking about whether or not she got fired by Lord Sugar – it’s about whether or not she died.

This is childbirth, about the most dramatic, emotional thing that happens in anyone’s life, and One Born Every Minute captures that well. It really doesn’t need to throw in any extra, manufactured television “drama”.

Obviously (I hope!) they wouldn’t have done it like that if she hadn’t made it, but even so, too much. Maybe I’m just feeling a bit sensitive, after the trauma of watching OBEM. Time for another memory wipe.

We have another birthday coming up next week in this house, a fourth one. Just four years ago, and nope, I couldn’t tell you anything about it.