This week's column should have been retitled: I Want My Brain Back. Forget the body, sisters, that can be restored somehow - even if I have to buy a new one. It's the old grey matter that's really concerning me. I hadn't done any training this week due to a gastric bug. Mel, my personal trainer, was very understanding - new mums shouldn't push themselves, especially in the first few months of motherhood. Phew. Also, because breastfeeding mums still have the hormone relaxin coursing through their veins, we must be careful not to over-stretch or weight-train because we could do permanent damage to ligaments and muscles. Even better news - we mustn't diet because that could compromise the supply and quality of milk.
So the training might have gone tits up (or, more correctly, tits down) but that isn't the real worry - my brain is heading southward too. Pre-birth I had gamely agreed to do a Dr Who Weakest Link charity special, and now I couldn't wriggle out of it. Sleep deprivation is a terrible thing: it was during rehearsal - as David Tennant smiled sympathetically while I randomly shouted "bank!", pressed all the wrong buttons and practically knocked over my podium - that I realised things might be going pear-shaped in the brain department. By eight o'clock I was breaking into a cold sweat, unable to remember my own name, let alone those of my fellow contestants. By the time the penetrating ginger-gaze of Annie Robinson lasered in on me, all I could hear in my head was her barking: "Tracy-Ann Oberman. You are the fattest link. Goodbye!"