Earlier this year, I surfaced from sleep to a strange noise, a loud, human singing reverberating through our bedroom ceiling, then a low, almost animal groaning. My husband and I looked at each other. ‘I think Hatty’s in labour,’ he said.

The rest of the day proceeded in the usual way, getting breakfast for our children, dropping them off at school, meetings, emails, booking in the car for an MOT, but these activities were interspersed with opening the door to midwives, making cups of tea for Hatty, and finding towels to drape around the birth pool that had appeared in our living room. Towards evening, our eighth housemate appeared in a rush of fluids. Two ambulance-loads of paramedics stood around like a flock of green and yellow London parakeets, blessedly unrequired. At one point, there were nine medical professionals, seven housemates, two grandparents of the new arrival and a cat in our terraced London house.…