How the mighty are fallen!

We have the loveliest midwife I have ever met. When I mention her to friends a dreamy look appears in their eyes and the general consensus is that she is 'absolutely lovely'. I agree. She also has the inestimable advantage of being middle-aged and a mother of three, thereby generating automatic respect.

And, most importantly, confidence.

The first midwife we had when DD was on the way I must confess I dubbed Tinkerbell due to her diminutive stature, extreme youth, high breathy voice and sparkly wings. Okay, I take that back, she probably scraped 5 foot. Suffice to say, she didn't fill me with anything approaching confidence - open-mouthed horror was more like it, especially when I discovered the gaping chasms in the information with which she should have provided me. Fortunately for us, if not the other local expectant mums, we moved several hundred miles away and subsided gratefully into the arms of the Herefordshire midwives.

This time, due to our precarious existence on the edge of two countries, I'm being looked after by the Powys midwives, and jolly wonderful they are too. In a recent study Powys maternity services were described as "excellent", and my only regret is that DD's out-through-the-sunroof birth precludes me from delivering this one at the birthing centre and literally into the hands of these awe-inspiring individuals. No, due to the idiosyncracies of health care there is no facility in Powys in which I can give birth, so hey ho, hey ho, it's off to Hereford and unknown midwives we go, not that I'm complaining.

Much.

Brushing aside for now its recent hair-raising performance in the government's hygiene Gold Cup, we've only ever had the best of care in Hereford Hospital. I was lucky enough to have DD just a fortnight after the new maternity wing opened and had my own room with en-suite bathroom no less, quite a result for an enthusiastic post-caesarian new mum masquerading as a shambling old lady hanging onto the shower handles for dear life and wondering what horrors lay under that abdominal bandage.

But I really wanted to talk about Dairylea.

At our booking-in visit I was given a little chat about healthy eating. Immediately laughing and assuming a superior air I assured the midwife that there could be no concerns there. Hmm. I had to fess up to prawns and earnt something nearing a frown for that, which swam before my eyes in the supermarket today as I was tempted by the prawn sandwiches and had to grip the trolley handle to prevent myself accidentally grabbing and devouring one. I was also warned off swordfish, not a regular part of my diet; in fact the last time I was anywhere with swordfish on the menu it was a tricky choice between that and the 'roo steak, and the fishmonger recommended it as a good choice for kebabs the other day, but not for the pregnant woman. We had lamb instead, in case anyone was wondering.

My eyebrows really reached for the skies when cream cheese was mentioned. The lovely midwife casually mentioned that Dairylea was fine, at which point I spluttered on my chamomile tea, attractively, and protested that I would never eat anything like that, I mean! Honestly. Well, she didn't know me, but did I look like someone who ate tubs of processed cheese spread?

On cold potatoes?

On the crust of the new bread?

On my index finger??

I wish she'd never mentioned the bloody stuff. I haven't been able to stop eating it. Morrisons clearly heard of my plight and thoughtfully provided a nice long-lasting bogof offer, but can it last another five months?? Do you think it freezes?