He was just 13 weeks old when my midwife rang one night. She was anxious about me. Where to start: my "elderly primigravida" status, my exploding appendix which caused the baby to come early, the house renovations that left me without a kitchen or bathroom, my breastfeeding struggles and, and, and…

I thought she was calling with some sympathetic advice. But no, fueled by what sounded like a chardonnay or two, my midwife felt compelled to give me wise words about my son's future.

Her advice – the bits that made sense anyway - went something like this: "You'll need

Be alert