`I'm pregnant," she said. She was neither smiling nor crying so I couldn't gauge how she felt about it. I took a gamble. "Well, congratulations!" Never once had this dear old friend of mine shown any interest in children. She never ever talked about kids and only tolerated mine due to our bonds of friendship.

There she sat in front of me, all forty something years of her, telling me she was going to have a baby in a few months. Nasty images of her growling at "screaming brats" in supermarkets and restaurants flashed before me. I've experienced her impatience with women who sacrifice their time and money on their children. She was impervious to kiddy cuteness in its many shapes and forms. I sat silent weighing up the pros and cons of her situation.

Her high-powered job was well established but so was her husband's. I wondered who between them would win the war of the More Important Job to avoid taking time off work if the child was sick. A full-time minder would not eliminate sleepless nights pacing floors. Of course there are those whose blessed angels never cost them one night's sleep and of course, there are those that lie.

Now that my two are in secondary I had to scour far recesses of memory to recall words like sterilisers, infant formula, rusks and buggies. Each evoked unpleasant sights and smells. I started worrying for her and her soon-to-be-born. The best advice I could give was to keep my mouth shut. How could I break the news that her days of newspapers and morning coffee in bed were numbered; that she's soon to join the ranks of zombified parents who grab bits of sleep in naps and dozes. Then as the child grows other sets of problems will replace the sleepless variety. The list is long and endless.

I smiled thinking of the great compassion and empathy she's soon to have with us of the tossed hair, hallowed eyes and not-too-tailored outfits. "That's wonderful," I said. Ah kids, they're great equalisers.