Sick note

Pretty much the first question people ask you when you tell them you're pregnant is, "Ooh, have you been sick much?"  The answer to that for me was a resounding yes.  I mean, some poor bastards don't get to leave the toilet for the entire nine months.  I was "lucky" in that I was only chundering maybe twice a week, and thank Imaginary Sky Fairy, it stopped after about week 16 or 17.

That's not to say I got off lightly.  Work have been great about me working from home when I've needed to - particularly now I'm bigger and suffering a lot from sitting at a desk all day.  But this was in the early days before I'd told them I was pregnant.

"A day working from home," thought I.  "That'll be the ticket.  Ban that pesky nausea!"

This is what my lunch "break" looked like - do not read if of a sensitive disposition and / or are eating your dinner.

1.00 Decide to cook myself some spaghetti Bolognese.  The Bolognese is from last night.  All I need to do is heat it in the microwave and put some pasta on the stove.

1.05 Whilst past is boiling, decide to put some laundry in the washing machine.

1.07  As I'm putting clothes into the machine, suddenly the thought of dirty laundry makes me sick.  Very sick.  I get to the kitchen sink just in time and heave up the only thing I've swallowed that day: a glass of milk.  Not so bad, you think?  Well, chemistry is one of the many lessons I've taken since getting pregnant.  Basically milk mixed with stomach acid = large white lumps of cheese that I then have to poke down the sink with my finger.  My finger then smells of sick.  This makes me sick again.

1.10 Turn spaghetti off on gas hob and go and brush my teeth.  Wash my hands.

1.15 Finish making spaghetti.  Serve.  Start to eat.

1.25 Phone rings.  It's a work call.  I suddenly realise I need to get rid of them NOW.  I ask them to call back later.  I put the spaghetti down.

1.27  Make it upstairs just in time to have spectacular diarrhoea.  Mostly water, with strange yellow lumps that can only be sweetcorn.  I genuinely cannot remember the last time I've eaten sweetcorn.  I don't think I've had any for at least a month.

1.30 Realise excessive diarrhoea is covering back wall of toilet and will need to be wiped down.  Wipe down with wet wipe.

1.31 This makes me sick again.  Wash hands again.  Brush teeth again.

1.34  Come back downstairs to spaghetti Bolognese which is a) cold and b) has a Monty Cat buried up to his whiskers in it.

Treasure every minute of pregnancy, ladies.  It's almost all as much fun as this.  Next week - piles!

Brought to my knees

I would love to say I'm a big supporter of the NHS.  I absolutely like the idea of it.  And I wouldn't support any plans that saw it taken away.  However, pretty much every real life experience of the NHS has been a little bit shit.

At the moment (moan, moan, moan), I'm experiencing chronic back pain, probably something to do with the fact I'm now absolutely massive and my poor weedy joints don't know what's hit them.  I've been having private physio at work, but only ten sessions per condition are covered by my health insurance.  Hence the fact that it's time to turn to the NHS.  My doctor duly referred me (she didn't even use Google this time!).

About a week ago I got a call on my mobile.

Caller: Hello, is that Ms Nunn?

Me: Yes.

Caller: This is Rectory Lane Physiotherapy.  We're pleased we can now offer you an appointment.

Me: Great - that was much quicker than I expected.

Caller: Well, we do rush through urgent cases like yours.  So you're having physio because of your knee replacement?

Me: Sorry, what?

Caller:  Your knee replacement.  Do you remember?  You had your whole knee replaced?  Remember?

Me: Erm, I think you might have the wrong person.

Caller: Oh.  Are you sure?  I've got here that you had your whole knee replaced.  Your right knee.  No, sorry, your left.  That was you, wasn't it?

Me: Erm, no.  I think I would remember that.

Caller:  Hmm.  That's odd.  You definitely haven't had your knee replaced six weeks ago?

Me:  Not that I remember.

Caller: So you think you might have done?

Me: No.  I haven't had my knee replaced.

Caller:  I'll double-check and call you back.

They didn't.  But what I did get was a letter in the post asking me to call Rectory Lane to make a Physio appointment myself.  I needed to call between 9-4 p.m. Monday to Friday.  If I didn't call within two weeks, they would take me off their waiting list.

Reader, I called them.

The phone rang.  And rang.  And eventually an answer phone picked up.  "Oh well," I thought.  "They are probably busy at this time of day."

A lady's voice told me their opening hours again, and invited me to leave a message and my phone number, or to call back later.  I awaited the beep.  It didn't happen.  I waited a bit longer.  Still no beep.

What I heard instead was this recorded message, "Do you know how this works?"  "No".  Then the sound of someone pressing a lot of buttons.  Then "Oh dear."  "What does this button do?" Still no beep.

I gave up.  I'll call back later.

Is this a new NHS tactic for reducing waiting lists; refuse to take your call, and then claim you didn't contact them within two weeks?

In the meantime, if you want a laugh, give Rectory Lane Physiotherapy a call on 020 8272 4614 and have a listen to their answer phone message.  On the exceptionally slim off-chance you do get through, could you make an appointment for me?  Apparently I've had knee surgery and I'm an urgent case.

Ta.

Going for a song

It is a truth universally acknowledged that May heralds three guaranteed things: exams, hot weather and Eurovision.  The three are eternally entwined in my mind, perhaps owing to 1998.

1998 was a tough year for me, as it was the last year of high school and a lot of pressure with A-levels, compounded by a school that liked to crank up the pressure.  ("Eight hours of revision a day really isn't enough, girls.")  Additionally we had the Leavers' Musical to look forward to (a totally mad idea where the upper sixth put on a musical in - if memory is accurate - five days.  The cast almost always had a lot more fun than the audience.).  On top of all this, the UK exam system means there was the threat of university places being whisked away if we didn't meet our predicted grades.  It wasn't a lot of fun.

It was a Saturday.  My first A-level exam was on Monday.  Mr Nunn, clearly mindful of the pressures I was under, decided I needed to let my hair down a bit.  He invited over my friend Jennie for a stir-fry and an evening of Eurovision... and provided us with a beer from each country.  The idea was that we'd drink the beer of the corresponding country as they sang in Eurovision.  To this day I have no idea where he found Estonian beer.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, each Eurovision song is approximately two minutes long.  A swotty 18 year-old who had never really been drunk before, found herself trying to force down her bottle of Estonian Saku before her Spanish San Miguel and Italian Peroni.  All within about 12 minutes.  Even with Terry Wogan padding it out as much as possible, it went swiftly to my head.

Suffice it to say, I don't remember much of the contest.  I'm fairly sure I went to bed (passed out?) before the judging.  And over the next few days I developed pharyngitis and was pretty much unable to speak for my entire French Oral exam.  Not that I think I can blame that specifically on Mr Nunn, but it doesn't hurt to try.

I can't remember what questions I was asked in my French Oral exam, which topics came up in History, or which texts I answered on in English, but every year when Eurovision rolls round, despite not having watched it for over a decade, I remember our Eurovision Beer Contest, and it makes me smile a lot more than the memory of May exams ever does.

Plumb stupid

We are currently having a new bathroom installed.  This was possibly the worst false economy ever.  Essentially our shower had stopped running hot, and the only way to fix it was to take all the tiles off the wall... and then have to retile the whole bathroom.  This would have cost about £1000.  TheBloke (TM) and I decided that we'd bite the bullet and have the whole bathroom redone.  Surely better to put that £1000 towards something tangible.

What a stupid idea.

The last few days (it feels like months) have involved:

• Splinters in our feet from the floorboards where the bathroom floor used to be
• Our whole house - and our very souls - covered in dust
• The absolute joy which is attempting (and usually failing) to flush your own excrement down the toilet with a bucket of water.  Even more fun when you get splashback
• Finding out someone (not naming anyone, but I'm 92% sure it was the plasterer) has chipped the new bath
• Finding out B&Q are so inept that not only did they forget to order the pump, but ordered a bath panel and a toilet seat that don't fit the bath and toilet they also ordered.  Mike at Ilford is a particular fuckwit.   Avoid.
• Plaster that the plasterer told us was dry "immediately", according to the tilers is still not dry 72 hours later.  So there's no point them doing any work on Friday or Saturday.  Sunday morning at 8 a.m. is fine though.
• Did I mention my very soul is covered in dust?

The good news is that my work has really nice showers.  I mean really nice.  Massive shower heads, impressive water pressure, free fluffy white towels, free shower gel and shampoo, and even hairdryers.

Which makes me think that perhaps I should have just abandoned the idea of getting our own bathroom sorted out, and just moved into the office.  I mean, they've got a microwave, showers and water, what more do you need?  There's even a rest room with a little bed.  And a vending machine for snacks.  And think of the money we'd save on the mortgage.

So I'm going to ask my manager if we can all move in.  Me, TheBloke (TM) and Monty Cat.  Got to be easier than home improvements (unimprovements?).

Hair raising

Potentially alarmed by the lack of any maternal fibres in my body, Mrs Nunn decided she was going to kick-start the process by buying me a few mother and baby magazines.  One of them came with a free Gina Ford book, and the other came with a free car sunscreen, to protect the baby from the sun, on the offchance it ever stops raining.

There were a few interesting articles.  One about how babies seem to like bondage (it's supposed to stop them crying).  There was another about active buggies for active mums, which I dismissed immediately as for the last two weeks, every spare moment has been spent lying flat on my back*.  One of them had an agony aunt column.

"Dear Cynthia

Ever since I entered my second trimester, I've noticed my hair isn't as shiny as it used to be.  Can you recommend something?

From Jane in Dorset"


Yes, Jane, I can recommend something.  Fuck off.  Fuck right off.  Right off.  Off you fuck.

Seriously?  Lack of shiny hair?  That's your biggest problem?  You had to write to a magazine to get advice on it?  Fuck off.


I can't remember the last time I even bothered looking at my hair.  By the time I've managed to select clothes that almost fit, have noticed that my entire upper body is alternately covered in spots and hair (Timotei shiny though it may be), noticed that my tummy button has grown two more centimetres overnight, have limped downstairs because of the backache, and then suffered through an hour of heartburn and two packets of Gaviscon, what my barnet looks like is absolutely at the bottom of the list.  I'm lucky if I can be bothered to put a bra on most days.  For all I know I could be completely bald.

AND I DON'T CARE.

So Jane, do me a favour.  Fuck off.  Thank you.  And if the thought of sitting on a train for three hours with backache wasn't enough to put me off, I'd be over to Dorset straight away to twat you myself.

By the way, I think pregnancy makes me more bad tempered than usual.

*This is not just extreme laziness - it's helping with the back pain.  I have started to think about what sort of jobs I could hold down whilst prostate.  The only one I've come up with so far is prostitute.

Oh baby

Ploggers, I can only apologise for my extended absence.  I must try harder.

However, I have a reasonably reasonable excuse for recent tardiness / tiredness / grumpiness.  I have been busy manufacturing one of these:

Who knew?  Well, I did, obviously.  Mostly because I'm not one of those 17 year-olds you see on a cable channel who doesn't know they're pregnant until they're giving birth in the yoghurt aisle of Tesco.  Also TheBloke (TM) knew, because there's a reasonable chance he might be the father.  (But if the baby comes out black, I've already explained to him that it's because he grew up in Africa, and hasn't he ever heard of recessive genes?  So we should be fine.)

So has pregnancy changed me?  Undoubtedly:

• Nausea
• Vomiting
• Exhaustion
• Backache
• Massive norks
• Comedy tummy
• The invention of something called a snomit - half sneeze, half vomit.

The whole thing has left me feeling less earth mother, and more... vaguely resentful that men don't need to go through this.  Now, whilst my work's maternity policy is generous, I'm 90% sure that if men had to have babies, the following would be mandated by the government:

• Leave to commence immediately on finding out you're pregnant
• Full pay for 5 years' mandatory leave, half pay for a further 5 years
• A £50,000 bonus for having gone through it.

I also think medical care would be different if men had babies.  From what I've read, the best thing to hope for is a "natural" childbirth with no drugs at all.  Because that's how nature intended it.  

Bollocks to that.  Nature intended you to die from a nasty toothache if it meant you couldn't eat, but because men get toothache too, we've since overcome that problem with Novocaine and pliers.

Imagine a man going to the hospital because he needs his leg amputated.  The below is not far different from genuine conversations I've had about pain relief in labour:

Man:  So yeah, I guess I'm going to have to have my leg amputated.

Doctor: That's right.  Have you thought much about "natural amputation"?

Man: What do you mean?

Doctor: Well, we find drugs can have some nasty side effects.  Anaesthesia might make you a bit sleepy, and that's not - you know - natural - so, we've thought of a few different options.  How about HypnoAmputation?

Man: What's that?

Doctor:  Basically instead of injecting you with pain-killing chemicals, we just talk to you a bit.

Man: Oh.  I don't really think that's for me.

Doctor:  No problem, no problem.  Gas and air?

Man: Not sure that'll do either, honestly.

Doctor: Bouncing up and down on an inflatable ball?  Whilst doing some deep breathing?  We could even put some whale music on in the background?

Man: Nope - I was hoping for something more... pain-killy.

Doctor:  Hmm...  I've got it!  How about you get in our amputation pool, where some luke-warm water will allow you to have a peaceful amputation without the need for nasty drugs.

***

So yes, the labour part terrifies me.  It all seems so... farmyard.  Also, the baby bit terrifies me too, but people say that's normal.  We shall see.