Although the closest I have to children are my basil and mint plants, and my iPad, perceiving the treatment of pregnant women in society makes the above sentiment less twee, and more of a sincere wish.
Tales of pregnant women bouncing about seatless in the London Underground are rife, but apathy is not restricted to the capital, nor to public transport.
After my pilates class last night I walked through town, pausing to bewail the tyranny of my instructor to my mother (‘won’t walk for a week’/'trained by the devil’/'physically impossible’ – delete as appropriate).
Midway through the conversation, I heard a smack.
At first I thought a dog-walker was tussling with their pet, but after few seconds I heard groans.
Turning around, there was a profoundly pregnant woman rolling about on her stomach trying to get up.
Not ten inches away sat a man in a car, window down, cigerette-holding hand slung casually over the door observing her efforts.
Dropping the call, I picked her up and checked whether she needed water, a seat, a biscuit or was injured.
All the while, the man observed, casually puffing smoke.
She laughed, expressed embaressment and concern for her evening gown and went on her way.
And still he sat.
She said she was fine and I hope she is.
But the reactions of the man were far from fine and entirely slap-worthy.