Cold.

I am Poppy, standing naked in my shower, prodding my protruding belly and instantly falling into bad habits. Weight watchers soups, baby food compotes, celery, lettuce and cucumber for 10 days would normally sort those few extra inches out, but now I have to feed it. Bubs needs grubs, I tell myself, and can smell the lamb stew cooking on the stove, packed full of fresh vegetables. And red wine. I kick myself; why did I put red wine into my stew? Can I have alcohol during pregnancy? I suppose it doesn't matter if I open box 3... Box three, option three, the unspeakable.

I clip on an underwired E-cup bra, defiantly ignoring the overheard advice in Marks and Spencers about wearing bras without wires so as not to damage my breasts. Damage my breasts, I laugh wryly to myself as I cup one in the shower; they're AGONY. How much more damaged can they feel? It sits heavy in my palm, tender to touch and ridiculous looking on my smallish frame.

Margaret calls to ask if I am ok, I have been in the shower far too long, standing staring at my exposed skin, staring at my stomach, imagining. 5cm long now apparently, with functioning organs and fingernails. Option three. Functioning organs and fingernails. Murderer. Fingernails. Like wasps in my head these words buzz buzz buzz, I can hear Margaret calling me, as if from a distance, but I cannot forget those fingernails, scratching at my conscience. Scratch, scratch, scratching guilt and murderous thoughts into my head. I am freezing cold, in this room full of steam, and I scramble out of the shower. I slip and hit my hip on the side of the bath. Fingernails. Murderer. I pull a jumper around myself, but the cold does not leave me.