Several second passed while the import of this remark impressed itself upon me. Why, I thought, had he suddenly become so interested in the temperature in my corner of the office and why was he going to change what to me seemed a perfectly comfortable climate?

Unless, I thought, someone had complained. Looking around the room I share with five others, my gaze came to rest on a female colleague in the corner who was doing her best to avert her eyes from mine.

   "It was you," I said accusingly.
   "It's too hot!" she blurted.
   "It's not. It's perfect. You can't go making unilateral decisions on the room temperature. There has to be consultation," I said, gaining immediate support from the only other male in the room.
   "I'm pregnant," she implored.
   "Aaarrrggghhh!!!" I cried and ran from the office.

That made two of the four females in the room with child. The non-pregnant people, however, still had a majority of 3-2 and retained control of the air temperature but it was becoming a close run thing. I could, if pressed, live with air conditioning set a few degrees cooler. It was the conversation that I was beginning to find difficult.

I went through the baby thing almost 8 years ago while my cousin was pregnant. While it was a warm and wonderful experience, it's not something I'm particularly keen to relive every morning. Each day, however, I find myself being borne back in time as I sip instant coffee and try to block my ears to the chatter about morning sickness and the myriad of mysterious aches, pains and twinges to which pregnant women are prone.

Last week, one of two remaining non-pregnant women returned from holidays and there was the usual natter about travel and good times had.

   "I had a wonderful break," she said. "And I'm pregnant."
   "Good God," I thought, "it's an epidemic."

This meant that three out of the four females working with me had conceived in the past few months. The fourth, a mother of two has no plans for further children but, rather than be excluded from the maternalism flooding the room, went out and bought a dog.

I'm now surrounded by three pregnant women and the proud and doting owner of a puppy. It all got too much for the other male in the room who lost his nerve and took the coward's way out, going on a holiday from which he has yet to return.

I'm now outnumbered four to one and have lost total control of the air temperature. Each day I come to work wondering what temperature will be dictated by the torrent of female hormones at play in the room. Will they be feeling hot or will they be feeling a mite chilly?

Most of the desks in the room are now littered with grainy black, white and grey ultrasonic images of unborn children or pictures of dogs. Late last week I fought back and brought in some photographs of my budgerigar and forced the mothers-to-be and dog owner to look at them.

"My baby pictures," I declared. "It's your turn to look at photos." To their credit, they made the appropriate "ooh" and "aah" noises but it was the only shot I had to fire.

I have no defence against the discussions on whether it is best to wear maternity frocks or slacks with expandable waists or the calisthenics which the child has been performing in the womb the previous night. It's like living in a pre-natal clinic. I live in fear of the day that they spread mats on the floor and begin doing birthing exercises.

Not that I am privy to all baby conversations, some of the issues discussed mercifully being judged too intimate for my ears and conducted in hushed tones in the corner of the room. I can, however, imagine what they are saying and it makes me feel faint.

Books are exchanged along with confidences and occasionally, one of the more mature women on the staff will happen by with some timely advice. "Don't listen to what they say," they counsel. "It'll all be worth it." Another way of saying it's going to hurt like hell.

My real fear is that come the appointed hour, one of them will go into spontaneous and premature labour in the office and I'll be sent out to fetch boiling water and clean sheets.

I already have suffered a nightmare in which all three women go into labour simultaneously and I am the only other person in the building. I wake up moaning and clutching the pillow and I know it is a dream which will recur over the coming months.