I always thought I’d have children. Growing up in a family of four, it was simply one of those assumptions I made, in the same way as I assumed my older sister would always be able to draw better than me (she can) and our pet cat would be around forever (he wasn’t).

But it hasn’t turned out like that. I’m now in my late-30s, divorced, single, and the pitter-patter of tiny feet is not to be heard in the hallway. Not least because I don’t have a hallway, and live in a flat in north London.

My professional life is on track. At around the same time I was busily assuming I’d have children, I also nurtured ambitions to be an author and journalist. I’ve managed that. The procreation has been trickier.