To add insult to injury, my latest party trick is to get rather weepy over everything and nothing.

Skip ahead to Kaz Cooke’s chapter on baby distress leading to emergency C-section, and my eyes start to water.

Watch Hamish Blake cradle the tiniest puppy dog on Talking About Your Generation, and the corner of my lips start to droop.

Oprah gives away the latest VW Beetle to each and every one of her 275 show audience. I whimper.

Seven o’clock news bulletin about a world gone mad – the usual, really. But I’m about prying my eyes open with toothpicks to keep from openly sobbing.

Cerebrally, I’m writhing on the floor in humiliation from the emo overshare, and on occasion, can just feel myself tipping away from the right side of The Reasonable and Proportional Response. Which only makes me get even tetchier for living up to the World’s Oldest Cliché of a blubbering, hormone-riddled pregnant woman, but hey. Don’t knock the stupefying power of raging hormones. It’s the same as the Sudden Drowsy – hits you like a drug, and before you know it, you’re curled up in bed sound asleep before most seven-year-olds, or dabbing your eyes in the name of “hayfever” because someone might have been an absolute cow to you at the shops. Whatever.

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