Greetings from Pramstead.

'They call it Pramstead, you know', said the teacher at our NCT class while we took a breather from attempting to latch careworn plastic dolls onto knitted boobs. Laughter rippled around the semi-circle of cross-legged bumps. 'You must have noticed how many buggies there are. There are women and babies everywhere. You'll soon see how many friends you'll make and how baby-friendly it is. We're so lucky up here.'

I'd never really noticed it before, but she was right. Hampstead is a leafy London suburb known for being home to authors, actors, artists, musicians and intellectuals (whatever that means). But it is also crammed full of a very particular breed of mothers-to-be, mothers and their fragrant offspring. Now I'm supposedly one of them, I'm privy to a whole new world.

How to pass the time with your newborn? Baby Massage classes, of course, but how about Baby Mandarin? Your six month old isn't talking yet? Get down to Baby Signing! Or perhaps your toddler fancies thirty minutes of Baby Salsa before lunch? What do you mean he can't walk yet? No matter: he can sit on your hip on the specially made contraption just for the purpose.

Sleep-deprived and desperate for company and entertainment, I embraced this enclave and its baby madness. Now my babe-in-arms is a toddling chatterbox and I'm back at a desk for most of the week, daydreaming of picnics on Primrose Hill and coffee and cake at Kenwood.  

These occasional 'postcards' are my way of recording the latest news from Pramstead, NW3.