Julie Jay: I often fantasise about a 'holiday' in hospital 

It is a scientific fact that most mammies only rest when under medical instruction to do so

In the final fortnight of pregnancy, I got the bug. Not the acting bug or the travelling bug, but the marginally more socially acceptable stomach bug, which proved to be the toughest 72 hours I put down while up the duff.

I am the distinct opposite of a hypochondriac and will generally only attend the GP if I fear my gaping wound might upset other members of the public.

And so it was as a final resort that I attended my doctor at 37 weeks pregnant after a night spent over the toilet bowl, only to be told that due to extreme dehydration, I had to check myself into hospital for an overnight stay.

I feigned upset: what about my toddler? Who would get the dinner? But it was hard to put in a convincing performance while I was trying to locate my fancy nightie and eye mask at the same time. Stopping only to throw up twice, I packed my book and phone charger into a tote bag quicker than you could say 'We’ll keep you in just to be on the safe side'.

Bar the vomiting and explosive diarrhoea, I couldn’t have had a nicer hospital stay. I slept in a bed with literal hospital corners. The staff made me cups of tea on repeat. I got to read a book with minimal interruptions bar the beep of an IV. Forget five-star spas, I can’t think of a more blissful retreat than signing yourself into your nearest maternity ward.

Last week, the British media covered the story of Kate Middleton’s hospitalisation for abdominal surgery. Of course, we wish her nothing but the best and hope she enjoys a speedy recovery. But serious health matters aside, having a room to herself and time away from the royal family soap opera must have been a nice reprieve. 

As a mammy, we rarely get to be the ones being minded. I'm already fantasising about ending up in the hospital for another brief stay, preferably for a mysterious illness which requires lots of observation, very few needles, and little fasting. 

For me, the major indulgence during my last hospital stay was having staff attending to my every need, or as Kate would call it, a Tuesday. Now that I'm a mammy, it feels inherently wrong to be the one who gets to have a lie-down and some 7Up brought to them on a tray.

It was so difficult for me to accept being looked after at 37 weeks pregnant that I spent the first half of my hospital stay saying things like, ‘Let me carry those blankets for you.’ and insisting that I was more than capable of putting in my own IV. Eventually, I settled into allowing the staff to be nice to me, and it was nothing short of blissful.

Just last week, I had a rare moment where my eldest was in playschool and the baby was napping, and it suddenly hit me: I could go to sleep for a bit.  But I couldn’t justify it when there was so much housework to be done, so I ploughed on and complained about being tired later. I know I am not alone in saying most mammies only rest when under medical instruction to do so, and even at that, we find it hard because there is just so much to do all of the time.

When speaking to my mammy friends recently, many said they also were daydreaming about a brief hospital stay, where an authoritarian yet strangely maternal ward nurse insists we lie down and scolds us for trying to help change the sheets.

I remember in my early comedy circuit days, a male comedian told me about a motherly B&B owner who would come up to your room and, while enquiring how your stay was going, proceed to tuck you into your bed at night.

“Honestly, there’s no better feeling,” he told me, and while I can think about some potential better feelings (a parent/child bond, escaping a clamp with seconds to spare, etc), I often think of this B&B and dream of being tucked in. 

A few weeks back, when I was a bit under the weather, I asked my husband to tuck me into bed. (Fred always comes to bed a couple of hours after me as his bedtime routine consists of watching Radiohead videos - a sureproof way to bring anybody’s energy down before hitting the hay).

Clearly, my husband is tragically unfamiliar with tucking as he proceeded to toss the sheets in my direction in a clueless, if not loveless, way. 

If my hospital stays have taught me anything, it is that if you want a proper tuck, you need to procure it from a woman who trained in England in the '80s and once cycled home from Camden to Cavan at Christmas when the ferries were cancelled, only stopping twice to drink water from an obliging ditch.

As Kate recovers in hospital, she will no doubt be somewhat miffed by all the British red tops, heralding her husband as a hero for holding down the fort while his wife gets better. Because it’s not 'babysitting' when it’s your own kids, even if you are a king-in-waiting.