Essential kit for every pregnant woman....a screwdriver

Today is my 30th Birthday - this morning Mr Jones told me I was old and fat. When I protested he asked me which of those statements wasn't true - I had no answer. He won't be 30 until July. I keep forgetting it's my birthday - baby's appear to take over everything - I'm told this is what happens when you have children.

The day hasn't passed completely without celebration. On Saturday night we went out for the yearly cocktail binge (non-alcoholic for me). I wore my hair down for the first time in eight months. We went to Browns as always. We'd been there scarcely 10 minutes when Baby Jones gave me a quick kick in the bladder and sent me scuttling to the loo. The cubicle was tiny and brick built (no windows, no airy gaps under the door or walls), there was nowhere to put my handbag and I cursed myself for bringing it.

That was until I tried to open the door. The lock stuck fast. I jiggled it, tugged at it and frantically clawed at it to no avail. I got my phone out of my bag and glared at the flashing "sos" where the signal should have been. The sweat started to pour and panic ensued. I banged on the door calling out to anyone who could hear. "I'm locked in can you get some help please" I shouted - trying to sound calm.

"Oh dear - of course" came the reply from a fellow loo goer - "Just let me wash my hands". I let out an exasperated sigh as I felt the walls start to press in on me, the temperature jump by about 10 degrees and a river of sweat begin to meander down my back. "Oh there's no paper towels - I'll have to use the handdryer" said my potential rescuer.

"Knock yourself out" I thought. "Why don't you give yourself a hand massage while you're at it, maybe a manicure - meanwhile I'll stand here trying not to pass out in the world's smallest toilet cubilcle while my unborn child - evidently sensing my panic starts its own rebellion in my stomach."

The door to the loos opened and closed and I was left in silence. A minute later a voice asks "Are you ok?"

"Er no - I'm locked in, I'm 34 weeks pregnant, I'm hot and I really would like to get out" I manage before bursting into tears.

"Hang on I'll get some help." and I'm left alone again. I check my phone and I have signal. I call Mr Jones' work mobile - no answer - I can't believe he's left it at home, it's usually permanently enscounced in his pocket. The signal has gone.

"Hi, I'm here to get you out" says a male voice. "What's happened to the lock?"

"It's jammed" I say - in a voice that clearly suggests that it's blatantly very obvious what has happened to the lock. And dissolve into tears again.

The signal is back - I call Mr Jones' personal mobile. He answers with a tone of panic in his voice. I've been gone for about 15 minutes. "I'm locked in the toilet" I sob. He sends my mum.

I hear her arrive and imagine her glaring at the male in charge of rescuing me when he suggests she move along to another cubicle. "That's my daughter in there and she's eight months pregnant - get her out," she demands.

I can hear rattling and jiggling. I keep trying the lock in the hopes that it will move. The door opens inwards, the cubicle is tiny. I try to work out where I could possibly position my huge self should the door need to be knocked down to aid my exit. By now I am shaking and I'm impossibly hot. I'm surprised I haven't fainted.

"Er - I've dismantled the lock from this side but I can't get it to move," says the male. I let out a sob. "I'm going to pass the screwdriver under the door and I need you to unscrew the lock from your side." Thankfully there is a tiny gap under the door which just fits a screwdriver. There is just space enough for me to bend down to pick it up.

It's a flat head, the screws are Philips. There are six of them. My hands are soaked with sweat and are shaking manically. Trying not to get hysterical I painstakingly unscrew each screw and throw it on the floor in disgust. The lock is painted to the door frame, I stick the screwdriver behind it and wrench it off onto the floor. And I'm out. There's a waitress clutching a glass of water with a straw, a concerned looking restaurant manager and my Mum. Everyone looks thankful that I haven't gone into labour in the loo. Sweaty doesn't even come close to describe me - I look like I've been treking in the Amazon and my "worn down for the first time in eight months hair" is now fluffy and goes straight back up. I say thanks to my rescuers and escape as fast as I can.

Mr Jones looks gives me a big hug and hands me a mojito complete with rum to calm my nerves. Baby J was created in a mojito fueled week in Zanzibar so we figure one won't hurt. I cross my legs for the remained of the cocktail fest and force my sister to check out the loo at the restaurant for safety before I dare use it.

I am considering carrying a small tool set where ever I go to ward off the likelihood of similar incidents. I wouldn't mind but that's the second time in my life that I've been locked in a loo. The first time was in a cocktail bar in Corfu when I was 14. Maybe I shouldn't go to cocktail bars.

The weekend improved from there. We have a good meal and on Sunday I was surprised with a Baby Shower - organised by Mrs Everard, my mum and my sister. Baby J now has loads of very cute clothes and some very handy bits and bobs to make looking after him easier. I feel very spoilt and grateful of all the fuss. So thanks to all involved.

Just a quick note - there have been requests for the next installment of Snakebite and slushes - I promise to get on to this next week once I'm on maternity leave - so keep checking back. If you're following my blog I'd love to hear from you - or you could become an official follower - just click on the link on the right. If you're reading this on facebook you can log on here .