Those birth packages: the first of the three was called the “basic” package. For the equivalent of £1,200 it gets you a private bed and a dedicated midwife and some aftercare, but – get this – no anaesthetic. None. Not even gas and air. “But don’t worry,” the consultant smiled sweetly, “should your wife feel at any time that she would like pain relief, we’ll be happy to automatically upgrade you to a superior package… though a small administrative fee will apply, of course.”

Of course.

I began to sweat. I suddenly felt like I was on Ryanair and, smash it as I might, my cabin bag wouldn’t fit into the bloody metal cage they put near the gate. I imagined a poor woman in the pain of labour, desperate for relief but knowing that she can’t give in because they’ll put her on a birth package that she can’t afford, and chuck in a penalty charge on top.

The second package was called the “standard” package, and we were told it’s the one that most people go for. Unsurprising – just look at the name. Imagine the poor husband who plumps for the “basic” deal now; the withering look from his wife that says, “You’ve just elected to give me and your child below standard healthcare.”

For around £1,600, the standard package does get you pain relief, as well as the intermittent supervision of a doctor. Then it was back on Ryanair again as the consultant reeled off a list of “optional extras” (though she stopped short of offering smokeless cigarettes.) For an extra £280 you can have a doctor there the whole time. For £100 we were told we could upgrade to a family room, which would allow the partner to stay overnight after birth. The consultant’s face came up to look me bang in the eye and ask if I’d be interested, and again the guilt was crushing. What kind of man could refuse such a thing? What kind of callous bastard would abandon his wife after such an ordeal, would turn down the chance to be with his child on the very first night of his or her life?

I tried to compose myself as she moved on to the final package, but fortunately it was too ridiculous to feel anything but amusement. It was called – I shit you not – the “prestige birth” package.

The prestige birth package (about £3000) gets you literally anything you want. On arrival you are whisked away to – again, not a joke – a “VIP birth room.” There is full-service catering. You can request any doctor you want to be there every second of the way; by the sound of it, they don’t even have to be a gynaecologist – if you like the podiatrist and you want him there, you got it. And, crucially, if you decide you feel like a caesarean today, they’ll convey you directly to surgery, no questions asked. There, the mother-to-be can sit back and enjoy a cool glass of chardonnay, while Morgan Freeman, with his oh-so-soothing voice, scrubs up, ready to conduct the procedure.

Jokes aside, I understand free-market capitalism, the benefits of choice, the importance of women feeling comfortable when they give birth. I recognise that, to anyone earning British wages, these amounts might sound fairly reasonable really. But I couldn’t escape the feeling that it was all very, very sad. Do we really need “prestige” to distinguish ourselves from the pack, even when undergoing something so unifyingly human as childbirth?