‘I’d really love some more.’

‘I’ll buy some later today.’ It was 12.04 a.m. ‘We can have it cold as an appetiser.’

‘I meant now. Tonight. With dill pickles. The ones with chilli if you can find them.’

‘It’s too late to eat. Your digestive system—’

‘I don’t care. I’m pregnant. You get cravings. It’s normal.’

Normal had clearly been redefined.

I predicted that finding smoked mackerel and pickles after midnight would involve significant effort, especially as my intoxication precluded the use of my bicycle, but this was the first opportunity I had been offered to do something directly related to the pregnancy.

Random jogging in an unfamiliar neighbourhood failed to uncover any smoked mackerel. The streets were still busy and my directional choices were being influenced by the need to dodge pedestrians. I decided to proceed to Brooklyn where I knew there was a well-stocked all-night delicatessen on Graham Avenue. Statistically, my expected time to find mackerel was probably lower if I continued to search Manhattan, but I was prepared to pay a price for certainty.

As I jogged over the Williamsburg Bridge, I analysed the problem. It seemed likely that Rosie’s body was reacting to some deficiency, the intensity of the desire magnified by the importance of proper nutrition during pregnancy. She had rejected the mushroom and artichoke risotto but wanted mackerel. I made a provisional conclusion that her body required protein and fish oil.

As with the management of my increasingly complex life, I saw two possible approaches. An on-demand sourcing of nutrition, driven by cravings which probably occurred only after the deficiency was recognised by her body, was going to be disruptive and inefficient, as my search for mackerel was demonstrating. A planned approach, recognising the specialised diet required for pregnancy and ensuring all ingredients were on hand in a timely manner, was obviously superior.

When I arrived home at 2.32 a.m. in the City That Never Sleeps, I had run approximately twenty kilometres and acquired mackerel, pickles and chocolate (Rosie always craved chocolate). Rosie was asleep. Waving the mackerel under her nose did not stimulate any response.

When I woke, Rosie and Gene were already preparing to leave for Columbia and I had a headache again, this time doubtless due to lack of sleep. The correct amount of relatively undisturbed sleep is critical to optimum physical and mental functioning. Rosie’s pregnancy was taking a severe toll on my body. Purchase of pregnancy-compatible food in advance would at least obviate the need for midnight excursions. As a short-term solution, I took a day’s leave to concentrate on the Baby Project.

I was able to use the freed-up day productively, first to catch up on sleep, then to source further information on Rosie’s statement about the link between cortisol and depression. The evidence was convincing, as it was for the link with heart disease. It was definitely important to minimise Rosie’s stress levels in the interests of both Bud’s health and her own.

I allocated the remainder of the morning, after completion of scheduled body-maintenance tasks, to researching nutrition in pregnancy. The time I allowed turned out to be manifestly insufficient. There was so much conflicting advice! Even after rejection of articles that helpfully advertised their lack of a scientific basis by the use of words such as organic, holistic and natural, I was left with a mass of data, recommendations and recipes. Some focused on foods to include, others on foods to avoid. There was substantial overlap. A commercial but impressive baby-oriented website offered a Standardised Meal System for each trimester, but its meals included meat, which would be unacceptable to Rosie. I needed more time, or a meta-study. Surely others had faced the same problem and codified their findings.

The pregnancy websites also contained vast amounts of information about foetal development. Rosie had been clear that she did not want a technical commentary, but it was so interesting, especially with a case study progressing in my apartment. I selected one of the wall tiles above the bath and labelled it ‘5’ to represent the estimated number of weeks of gestation up to the preceding Saturday. I made a dot the size of an orange seed to represent Bud’s current size, then added a sketch. Even after forty minutes’ work, it was crude compared with some of the diagrams available online. But, as with the schedule on the tiles opposite, its production gave me a distinct sense of satisfaction.

To solve the immediate nutrition problem, I selected a vegetarian recipe at random from one of the websites. A jog via Trader Joe’s sufficed to source all the necessary ingredients for a tofu and squash flan.

I was left with an afternoon of unscheduled time—an ideal opportunity to do some research in line with Gene’s advice. It seemed wise to delay the shower and change until after my excursion, especially as the weather forecast indicated a thirty per cent probability of rain. I put my light raincoat on over my jogging costume and added a cycling hat for hair protection.

There was a small playground on 10th Avenue, only a few blocks away. It was perfect. I was able to sit on a bench, alone, and watch children with their guardians. Binoculars would have been helpful, but I could observe gross motor actions and even hear some conversation, especially as much of it was shouted. I was not disturbed—in fact on the sole occasion that a child approached me it was immediately summoned back.

I made several observations in my notebook.

The children explored for short distances but routinely checked and returned to their guardians. I recalled seeing a documentary in which this behaviour was made more obvious by fast-motion replay, but could not recall what type of animal was involved. My phone had substantial available memory, so I began shooting my own video. Gene would definitely be interested.