Pissed off

So the baby is now eight days late.  This is unfortunate, as both TheBloke (TM) and I pride punctuality as an important personality trait.  Let's just say our daughter is not making a good first impression.  We will bring it up accordingly at her quarterly performance review.

Anyway, today I got to have my, "Oh shit, you're more than a week late" appointment at Whipps Cross Hospital.  This may not be exactly what they call it, but the sentiment is the same.  Last week I had my, "Oh dear, you're a day late" appointment, which involved the midwife fingering me in what was apparently a medical procedure called a "sweep", but what was actually more like a late night at the Curzon Cinema in Loughborough.  Rubber gloves, lube, severe discomfort, and no telephone call the next day.

So the appointment today, like every other appointment I've had so far, has required a urine test.  Fine.  I can plan in advance, drink some fluid, produce wee on demand.  Excellent.  And in my past, I am sure - nay certain, that urine sample tubs have looked something like this:

These are fine.  Nice and wide and spacious at the top, allowing us ladies to cover the entire urine-producing area with the bottle and fill up the little tub with our golden delight.  So far, so good.  Yet I have noticed a worrying trend over the last few months.  Ever since I got pregnant, the urine sample bottles have changed to look like this:

Notice anything?  Pretty small opening, hey?  Well, no matter, surely?  Well actually, yes.  A bit of a matter.  As it happens, I can no longer see my own foo-foo area, and haven't been able to for several months.  This means it's mostly guesswork where exactly the wee-wee will come out.  Guesswork that has to be proved by trial and error - starting and stopping, if you will, until the right location is happened upon.  And - brilliantly - it's not actually possible to do this, without ending up with the pregnancy symptom I like to describe technically as "pissy hands".  In order to find the right position, you literally have to piss all over your own hands.  Lovely.

So, in addition to acid reflux, chronic backache, piles, carpal tunnel syndrome, acne, spotty boobs, achy hips, random itchy rashes, constipation, diarrhoea, labyrinthitis, vomiting and being a massive fat whale, pregnant women also have to put up with pissy hands because the NHS refuses to order slightly larger beakers.

Well not today, ladies and gentlemen.  Today I took a stand for all pregnant women.  On finally getting to the front desk, and being handed the above tiny beaker, I loudly and proudly stated for all to hear, "No!  I am eight days overdue and I will not tolerate any more pissy hands!  Please provide me with a receptacle large enough to cover my urogenital area!  I am completely unable to observe my urine flow as my tummy is too big and I am sick of pissing over my own fingers!"

Well, it worked.  Kind of.  In the end I was handed a polystyrene drinks cup and told I could decant.  Like a fine wine.  I will not miss being pregnant.

Vile Kyle

Generally my view is that maternity leave would be a lot more enjoyable if I wasn't heavily pregnant.  Slow waddling (usually to the bathroom or kitchen) is pretty much the highlight of a day for me, and daytime TV has become a regular fixture in each day's schedule.  Yes, I was supposed to be using this time to write a novel.  Let's just say it's in progress.  If "in progress" means I haven't even thought about starting it.  Still, I expect I'll have lots and lots of time once the baby gets here.

Now, accidentally, I found myself watching an episode of The Jeremy Kyle Show.  For international readers, or those who have day jobs, Jeremy Kyle is a bit like a British Jerry Springer - but a lot more unpleasant.  Rather than "take care of yourself, and each other", he actively harangues his guests, who are all from the lowest possible social strata, and most of them seem to have mild special needs.  And acne.

I'm currently watching an episode called "Stop trying to turn my sister into a prostitute", and last week's was, "I'm here to prove that I'm not sleeping with my partner's daughter".

Almost all of the guests have had a truly horrific upbringing - usually in and out of care, drugs or alcohol involved, very often a history of abuse.  And they've poured themselves into their best lycra chav suit for the day to come on the show.  They almost always have to do a lie-detector test, which seems to be the default way of settling arguments.

Jeremy Kyle himself acts as the middle-class voice of reason, shouting at the guests, "You disgust me!  You're lying!  People like you make me sick!"

There is genuinely a social class of people believing that "going on The Jeremy Kyle Show" is the best - nay - the only way of solving their problems.  There is a premium-rate phone number provided at the end of each episode so that you too can apply to be patronised by a prick for the nation's entertainment.

So, I'm trying to work out why I hate this show so much.  Partly it's a Roman Circus - throwing the stupids to the lions for the entertainment of other stupids.  Partly it's the vileness of Jeremy himself and the unfair match of intellects - it's a bit like watching a lawyer callously pick apart an argument between toddlers.

But when I'm really honest, I think it might be jealousy.  I think he might actually have the best job in the world - shouting at stupid people.  For money.  If only he also had a pointy stick he could poke them with, then I might actually go and apply to work on his show.

Making a tit of myself

Being pregnant has opened up a whole new world of complaining for me.  Not just about the myriad of minor niggles that come with the discomfort of having a giant beach ball shoved down your top, but with some of the strange idiosyncrasies that seem endemic to pregnancy.

Firstly - maternity clothes.  It's a familiar niggle that the range of maternity wear - especially maternity office wear - is extremely limited.  But even when you do find something you can just about wear to the office, guess what?  Bet you can't.  Maternity clothes have no pockets.  None.  Not a pocket.  Because obviously, as soon as you're pregnant, you can't be trusted with car keys or loose change.  You need to stay home, ideally in the kitchen, ideally barefoot.  Ironically, I'm writing this in the kitchen, and I'm not wearing socks.  But that's not the point.

Additionally, baby clothes, baby clothes often come with pockets.  Pockets!  For babies!  Silly mummy can't be trusted with the car keys, but two-week old Chardonnay needs change for the parking meter.

Secondly, and I guess this isn't really as much of a complaint as a challenge... Apparently legally speaking you're allowed to breastfeed anywhere you want.  And even more interestingly, it's actually illegal for anyone to ask you to go elsewhere to breastfeed.  This is exciting to me, as it poses endless opportunities to irritate other people.  Here is my current list of places I'm planning on breastfeeding:

• The Vatican
• MCC Enclosure at Lord's Cricket Ground
• Fundamentalist mosque (not sure where to find one of these.  Might need to ask around)

Any other ideas gratefully received.  (Baby due today.  No sign yet.  Bored.)

Vision Express

A few weeks ago, TheBloke (TM) and I went to a weekend of NCT classes.  For those of you who don't know, NCT is the National Childbirth Trust, and the idea of the classes is ostensibly to teach you everything you need to know about labour and looking after a baby.  Really, the only reason I've ever heard people give for shelling out £250 for the classes is to meet other middle-class mums in the area, so you've got something to do during your maternity leave.

Anyway, on the hottest weekend of the year, we toddled off to a local library with no air conditioning and met seven other couples who are expecting a baby round about the same time as us.

I had heard several horror stories about NCT - from knitted vaginas showing how the baby comes out, through to being pressured not to have any pain relief during childbirth (the clue for me is in the term "pain relief" - relieving pain - what's not to like?).  I'm happy to report that actually, there were no woolly foo-foos on display, and the tutor was very even-handed whilst describing the different types of drugs on offer.  (ALL of them.  I want ALL of them.)

However, there was one part of the day that didn't work for me so well.  The tutor was talking about hypnobirthing, and specifically around visualisation.  This is apparently where your partner talks to you about a happy place you've enjoyed together, and you focus on relaxing through the contractions.  (I think this might be easier if I've had ALL of the drugs.  ALL of them.)

So the tutor starts speaking:

"I'd like you all to close your eyes, relax and just let the pictures come into your heads.  It's a lovely warm sunny day, and you're driving in the car.  You pull your car up and park it by the side of the road, and take a path into open parkland.  There are two paths, one leading into woods, and the other leading into the park.  As it's a hot day, you decide to take the wooded pathway for some cool shade.  Above you, birds sing and the scent of fresh grass is in the air."

I feel my heart rate go up.  This is London.  Where on earth have I left my car?  Did I check the parking restrictions?  Last time we parked where we shouldn't, the car was towed and we had to pay £260 to get it back.  I had to go to Bromley-by-Bow car pound, which is like a run-down version of hell.  Also, where was I driving back from?  Won't people be worried about me if I just disappear when I'm expected home?  Plus, I go most places by tube; if I'm driving, I've probably got a boot-load of groceries in the car; if it's a hot day, the frozen items will be ruined by the time I've got back.

My breathing increases.  I'm really worried about that parking ticket.  I can't focus on the tutor, who's saying something about the lovely cool woods, and lying down.  LYING DOWN?  How could I lie down at a moment like this?  The car's being towed, the groceries are ruined, and as I've disappeared on my way home from work, there's probably a search team out looking for me.

"You can open your eyes," says the tutor.  I need to go and get a drink; I feel stressed out and a bit faint.

I'm not sure visualisation is the best sort of relaxation for me.

Earth has not anything to show more fair

This summer marks the end of a whole decade spent living and working in London.  A decade.  Ten years.

Here is my embarrassing list of London things that I have still not managed to do:

1. Buckingham Palace.  I've walked past it, but have never been arsed to go in.  Same goes for the changing of the guard, and whatever other guff they get up to in there.
2. Madam Tussauds.  TheBloke (TM) has been here, and has all manner of hilarious photos of him peering down the Queen's cleavage and pinching J-Lo's arse.  I've never seen the point.  Though I would quite like a Kate Middleton waxwork for my living room.  I would put a wick in her and light it, and enjoy her slowly melting and looking much less perfect as each evening went on.  I digress.
3. Kew Gardens.  I drove past it once, but only because I was lost.
4. St Paul's Cathedral.  Walk past it a lot.  Never quite wanted to stump up £16 or whatever it is these days to go and look round inside.
5. Wembley Stadium.  Don't like football, don't like loud music, and I think it's the wrong venue for comedy.  'Nuff said.

So, yes, there's a long-ish list of things in London I haven't yet done.  And, of course, as Samuel Johnson said, "When a [wo]man is tired of London [s]he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford."

This week has been my last week working in London for a while.  I left work today to start my maternity leave.  I now live outside Central London - still a comfortable commute in, but you wouldn't say we lived in "London proper" anymore.  This week, fitting in friends and book clubs and various different commitments before I went away, I had the opportunity this week to revisit Bank and Liverpool Street - an area in which I worked for about five years.

I walked past the Gherkin, and recalled in my first ever City job, how two naughty colleagues, Cookie and Boothie, made me skip most of an afternoon's work to get drunk with them in a restaurant next door.  The Gherkin was still under construction at the time.  Still two of my closest London friends, we continue to go out for dinner regularly... and they are still very naughty.  I smiled.

I walked past the Royal Exchange and remembered meeting friends there - a central meeting point - before going to the South Bank to watch an episode of Have I Got News For You? being taped.  It seemed such a long time ago, but I looked up at the beautiful architecture, unchanged throughout the decade, and smiled.

I walked down Bishopsgate, remembering how I used to walk to work from an overpriced one-bedroom flat in Dalston each morning to save the 65p bus fare.  (This was well before Dalston was trendy.  I think the technical term the estate agents used was "vibrant", and the term the Daily Mail used was "Murder Mile".)  I remember how I had a clip-on MP3 player to my mobile phone which held an astonishing 16 songs.  I remembered how I'd always feel virtuous for the exercise - which would make me so hungry, I'd eat a bacon sandwich as soon as I'd arrived in the office, thus more than negating the 65p bus fare saving, plus ruling out any calories I might have burned from the exercise by a good 300%.  I grinned at the memory.

I passed the Tesco Metro where on a Friday evening I'd sometimes buy myself a bunch of flowers, reduced for quick sale.  And how I learned how difficult it was to get lily pollen out of pretty much anything.  And smiled.

I jumped on the tube at Liverpool Street, and the train passed through Bethnal Green, where I lived for about six years.  I remembered how my friend Erica and I would spend at least one night each weekend at the Backyard Comedy Club - sometimes getting so drunk we stepped in a cold bowl of our own vomit the next morning (OK, that was just me.  Sorry).  Sometimes just loving the comedy so much, and staying for the cheesy disco... which was the same songs in the same order each week, literally on a tape.  Whenever I hear one of those songs on the radio nowadays, it still makes me smile.

Today at Canary Wharf - an area I've always held to be quite soulless, I looked up at the skyscrapers, and realised the sky was cloudless, the sun was shining, the breeze was blowing across the Thames as the new Shard went up in on the horizon and actually, I would miss this place too.  I smiled as I remembered the Gherkin going up as I first moved to London and my first few years in the city I wondered when London would be finished, when would the endless cranes move away?  Of course, the answer is never.  London keeps building, London keeps changing.  But it somehow never changes so far that it becomes something else.  London is always London.

So, this is no Wordsworth, and my London - made up of retail outlets and skyscrapers, is less picturesque perhaps than Westminster Bridge.  But you know what?  In ten years, it's made me smile a lot.  Thank you, London.  And goodnight.

Sill-iness

There are many joys of being a landlord.  I will number them below:

1.  Getting rent in on time.

Oh, that's it.  Well, hey ho.  There are several downsides though, and anyone who calls it "passive income" is a big fat liar pants.  I have always loathed and detested dealing with Tower Hamlets Homes (my last letter of complaint to them actually used the phrase, "I seriously doubt that anyone in your department could organise a drinking session in a brewery", and their reply pretty much confirmed that, as they addressed it to "Miss Laurahmed Noon" and threatened to tow my car which hadn't been parked there for three years.)

Still, despite still being in the London Borough of Tower Hamlets, a second flat we look after is managed by a different company - Poplar Harca.  I can tell you're riveted by this.  Stay with me.

Now, last week I made the mistake of contacting the tenants to organise a gas safety check.  Yes, this is a legal obligation, but inevitably, whenever you contact tenants to give them some information, immediately they give you a list of nineteen things that have gone wrong with the flat since you last spoke to them a fortnight ago.  So far, so exciting?

So this time, it's an ongoing problem with the seal around the window, which is letting in cold air.  According to Poplar Harca's website, this is their issue as building owners to repair.  According to the people on the end of the phone, this is now our issue as leaseholders.  I still haven't worked out why.

Now, the main difference between Tower Hamlets Homes and Poplar Harca, as far as I can tell, is that Tower Hamlets Homes will only employ people:

a) whose grasp of English is insufficient to do anything other than smile and nod (not ideal for a phone-based job)
b) who have moderate learning difficulties
c) who do speak English, don't have learning difficulties, but are vile and obnoxious.  Poplar Harca seems to employ lovely people who are actually fairly efficient.  This makes me nervous.  Surely this is too good to be true.

Still, whilst they do speak English, the accent was still something of an issue on the phone earlier today.  Tower Hamlets, being a diverse area of London, has tens of accents and various languages spoken.  But today my problem was with a Londoner.

Me:  Yes, I think it's a problem with the window seal.

Her:  Oh, we don't cover window sills.

Me: Not the sill, the seal.

Her: Oh, so you're saying it's not the sill, it's the sill?

Me:  *Trying to think of a way to explain to her that the way she pronounces "sill" and "seal" are identical.  Fails.*  Erm, yes.

See, told you this would be an anecdote worth waiting for.  Oh.  Sorry.

Fun with phonics

So I'm a little bit in love with my new iPad.

One of my favourite things is the dictation software which allows me to update my blog without actually having to sit at Brighton tight. No, not "sit at Brighton tight", sit upright!

Sitting upright is something of a challenge at the moment, so anything that makes life easier is always much appreciated.

So yes, the software is not without limitations, but it still seems very much into my printer placement. Dammit feeds into my laziness. Nothing to do with my printer placement.

TheBloke (TM), being of a South African persuasion, has enjoyed trying out this software using his best Afrikaans accent. This mostly involves saying "arse cream" instead of ice cream. Fortunately the iPad is not so uncouth as to know the word arts. Arts dammit, ARSE! Ah, there we go.

Now a word from TheBloke (TM) in his native South African accent:

"Laura watched Sex and the City the movie this evening."

Fucking thing works fine sometimes, doesn't it? Don't tell anyone. Anyway, it was a massive partnership. Not a partnership, acheiral of sheet. For fox sake, acheiral of sheets. A kind of shipped. A pile of shipped. Close enough.

iPad review of the film: A pile of shipped. For fox sake.

Where there's a Will...

Being grown-up is a funny thing.  Most of the time, it's ace - you can go out on a school night, or watch your favourite programme on TV without having to tidy your bedroom or do your violin practice first.  And if you don't like the vegetables for dinner - you don't have to eat them!  Result!

But there are some parts of grown-up-ness which are a bit more bothersome.  Not unpleasant as such, just time-consuming.  Like reading the gas meter, comparing car insurance quotations or setting up council tax standing orders.  Recently, for example, TheBloke (TM) and I had to get new Wills written.  We hadn't bothered since we'd got married, but with a baby on the way, it made sense to get the admin in order.

So far, so admin.

I was a bit slack with mine.  Whilst the Will company returned our paperwork within days, it was probably six weeks or so until I bothered to sign it and get it witnessed... and once I had, I left it on the table, to be filed at some point in the future.  I am not good at filing things.  Don't tell anyone.  I might want a job as a secretary one day.

Anyway, a few days later was when I got really ill with labyrinthitis.  Not ill enough to invoke the Will, thankfully, but ill enough that I had to spend a bit of time in hospital.  TheBloke (TM) was very attentive throughout; I was admitted on the Friday evening - and after leaving at about 10 p.m. on Friday, he phoned me at 8.30 a.m. on Saturday to tell me he was on his way back to visit me, and did I want anything from home?

Now, not knowing I would successfully persuade a doctor to let me leave that very same day, I gave TheBloke (TM) a nice list of things I wanted, including my iPhone charger, my Blackberry charger (because clearly, keeping on top of office work was my top priority when I was still vomiting over nurses), a change of clothes, some lip balm, some snacks in case I ever managed to keep anything down, and so on.  He dutifully made a list.

It was only when I got home, and a few days later, began to open my eyes again and focus on the world around me, I realised that in trying to find a suitable scrap of paper to write down my numerous requests, he'd made the list on the back of my Will.

Now of course, this isn't a problem - it's scribbled on the back of the Will, not within the body of the text itself, but it does raise the interesting question of if I kick the bucket, which poor solicitor is going to get the job of working out which beneficiary will receive my deodorant, and which one will get the Vicks Vapour Rub?

Or if I live a really, really long time, in 80 years' time, the solicitors might be trying to see if there was any hidden meaning in "Wotsits" and "iPhone charger", and I could spawn a treasure hunt of Masquerade proportions.

Either that, or someone will just think, "Bloody hell, she was clearly crap at filing.  This paperwork's going to be a nightmare."

Seventh Annual BBQ Extravaganza

Well, what an exciting weekend.  This weekend was the much-anticipated SeABE, which as regular Ploggers will of course know, stands for the Seventh Annual BBQ Extravaganza.  For seven whole years, Erica and I have been getting together for a summer BBQ.  Over the years we have been joined by Dean, and TheBloke (TM), and, this year, making her first appearance, we welcomed Charlie, who added her own mark on the event, notably by grinning a lot and pointing at things she wanted.  Also she slept 12 hours straight.  She makes this baby thing look easy.  Either that or her parents are drugging her.  Just saying.

The weirdest part of the weekend for me was seeing photos TheBloke (TM) had taken of us.  I mean, I know I'm carrying a teeny bit of pregnancy weight, but I never get to see myself from side on.  So it was a bit of a shock to see this.

I am a whale.  Hey ho.  Only another two months to go, and then I'm sure I'll snap straight back to my size 8s.  

So we all ate meat, and bread and plastic cheese (no BBQ is complete without plastic cheese), much to TheBloke (TM)'s disgust; he is a firm believer in the South African braai where only "proper meat" - steaks and suchlike are allowed near the grill.  Plastic cheese, pork sausages and especially burgers are an absolute no-no.  I did notice though that this aesthetic predisposition didn't prevent him from cramming a burger (with plastic cheese) and four sausages into his big fat mouth.

The weather was OK - which is something of a miracle, given the deluge of rain we've had so far this year.  And hopefully, all being well, there will be six of us next year at the EABE.

Symptomatic

So whilst I was off sick last week, as I slowly began to open my eyes again, like a newborn baby badger, I was able to focus on the TV for probably about 15 minutes at a time.

One of the shit daytime programmes I found myself half-watching was an American show called I didn't Know I was Pregnant.  I found this programme incredible.  Actually, genuinely incredible.  These women claim they had no idea they were pregnant until they went into labour (or as we're in the USA, "labor".)  I find this incredible because if I didn't know I was pregnant, I think I would honestly think I was dying.

Here are the symptoms I've had that I have translated into non-pregnant possible symptoms:

• Excessive tiredness / floppiness = leukaemia
• Random vomiting = stomach cancer
• Enhanced sense of smell = brain tumour
• Ever-worsening backache, spreading to different areas of my back = aggressive spine tumour
• Acid reflux = that pesky stomach cancer back again
• Squirty black poos from iron tablets = still that naughty stomach cancer
• Piles = bowel cancer
• Constipation = bowel cancer
• Sore hips = early-onset arthritis
• Dizziness / blocked ears / vomiting = brain tumour / stomach cancer

So basically I would assume I had but a few weeks to live.  These US rednecks (let's be honest, there's barely an IQ point between any of them on the show) are clearly made of tougher stuff than me.  "Gee, I thought it was bubbleguts", one of them drawled, before explaining that she thought the baby kicking her was a mild case of wind.  I got simultaneously punched in the bladder and kicked in the ribs earlier today.  Had I not known I was pregnant, I would have been convinced I'd picked up a South American parasite which was now the size of a large trout and eating my innards.

Then again, I could just be a hypochondriac.

Taxing the brain

So I'm late to the party on this one (see previous post), but I really wanted to write a little bit about the "scandal" a couple of weeks ago with Jimmy Carr being lambasted for paying not-very-much income tax, and his subsequent grovelling apology.

For readers outside of the UK, Jimmy Carr is one of the UK's most successful comedians, pretty left-wing, and earlier this year, lambasted a number of large companies for avoiding tax by keeping funds offshore.  The scandal came about when it was made clear a few weeks ago that Jimmy himself was doing pretty much the same thing.  David Cameron waded into the row and effectively said he thought Carr was a tosser.  Or words to that effect.

This I do not understand.  Jimmy Carr was exercising tax avoidance.  For those of you in doubt, tax avoidance is what you and I do every time we open an ISA, offset business expenses against profits or buy a high-priced item deliberately a few days before VAT goes up.  Tax avoidance is perfectly legal.  Teams of clever accountants are there to work out how they can best legally avoid tax for their clients.  This is what Jimmy Carr was doing.  (Tax evasion is illegal.  No-one has suggested Jimmy was doing this.)  At the very worst, you could accuse him of hypocrisy, because he took the piss out of banks for doing the same thing earlier in the year.

So hypocrisy, yes.  But avoiding tax - how many amongst us, given the option to a) pay a shitload of tax or b) perfectly legally not pay a shitload of tax, would choose option A.

I think I was one of the only people during the MPs' expenses scandal who just didn't see the scandal.  OK, there were those of them who were claiming fraudulent expenses.  And they were rightfully punished.  But for those who had been told openly that they could claim for x, y and z, and then did... well, surely that's fair enough.  It's the system that's broken, not the people operating within it. In a capitalist country, why do we expect people to have altruistic motives?  We need to give clear rules, guidelines and laws.

And whilst we're on the topic, if banks and big companies are also exploiting these loopholes, then surely that shows they're doing the best they can to return funds to their stakeholders... within legal limits.  (Exceptions go to Vodafone who basically does evade tax... and gets away with it.)

And for David Cameron to wade in on this when a) his own family made their fortune in tax havens and b) he's one of the few people in the country who could close the tax loopholes if he wanted to, was frankly ridiculous.

Rant over.  Not very entertaining Plog, but admit it, it's true.

I'm so dizzy

So yes, it's been ages since I Plogged.  But to be fair, it's only really been the last five days that I've been able to see straight enough to actually look at the screen.

Ladies and gentlemen, I bring you... labyrinthitis!  Upon diagnosis, I did wonder if this might have been brought on by an excess of David Bowie and too many gnomes but it turns out, it's completely unrelated, and actually means that your clever, clever brain forgets which way is up, which way is down, and makes you fall over and vomit.  A lot.  It's nothing to do with being pregnant, but because vomiting a lot dehydrates you, I had to go to hospital.  Joy.

High points of labyrinthitis:

• Finding out that if you vomit enough, you get to bring up some really interestingly-coloured bile.  Think a bright neon yellow marker pen.  Cool!
• Finding out that if the staff at Whipps Cross hospital tell you that they don't have a bed that you can lie down in until you are triaged, there's not much you can do...  Until, that is, you decide to lie on the floor in the corridor, clutching your sick bowl and moaning, and then suddenly a whole room becomes available really quickly.
• Finding out how quickly dignity disappears.  The best part of one night was having to press a buzzer to get someone to take me to the toilet; I had to hold onto my IV stand, sit on a bedpan, whilst vomit into another bedpan (and partly over an orderly), whilst said orderly watched me wee.
• Finding out that injections in your bottom really hurt.
• Getting a preview of a labour ward.  If you're a certain amount pregnant, pretty much no matter what's wrong with you, you go to the maternity ward instead of A&E.  Basically I spent a night inside a very personal episode of One Born Every Minute.  I have decided, pretty finally, that childbirth, or a C-Section, both sound like not very good ideas.  I am open to other suggestions.

It took ages to start feeling better, hence my absence.  Even as I type this, I am still completely deaf in one ear and find crossing the road a lot more like Frogger than I used to.  Especially the part where I have to jump on crocodiles' backs to cross a fast-flowing river.

Anyway, I'm back.  Hello.

50 Shades of Shit

One of the downsides of a long-ish commute to work is that when you're in pain from backache, and sitting hurts more than anything else, the journey feels hellish.

As a result, I've been trying extra-hard to find Kindle books that totally absorb me for the journey, as I find it's a kind of hypnosis.  Whilst it doesn't ease the pain completely, it stops me from focusing in on it.  Unfortunately "worthy" books rarely distract me as much as the trashy ones.  So for the last few weeks (with the exception of the fantastic Anne Tyler's new book The Beginner's Goodbye), I have been reading utter, utter guff on my journeys to and from work.  This guff has included The Hunger Games and most recently, though I'm ashamed to say it, Fifty Shades of Grey.

Fifty Shades of Grey was recommended to my by a colleague who told me a) not to read it on the tube (the joys of a Kindle means no-one knows what you're reading) and b) that it was really, really good.  Now, for those of you who have managed to avoid the hype so far, here is an outline of the book:

- University graduate meets hot multi-millionaire
- Multi-millionaire likes spanking university graduate
- His dark, tortured childhood is hinted at
- They go out in a private jet / helicopter / gilder a lot
- They do a bit more spanking, but nothing particularly shocking.  Unless I'm just perverse.

So far, so pedestrian.

The Amazon reviews are glowing.  Apparently it's a "deeply layered" story, which is "realistic" and "unputdownable".  Well, the last one has been disproved at least, as I've launched the Kindle across the room twice in disgust, not at the "erotic" scenes, but at at the truly terrible writing.

In addition to the bullet points above, as far as I can tell, the following happens at least 20 times.  Each.

• Ana says "Oh my".  This one actually happens about a million times
• She bites her bottom lip.  This girl is going to need surgery soon.
• She hears the tear of another foil packet.  Perhaps he's telling you he's putting a condom on.  If I know men, he's more likely to be opening a Pepperami.
• Ana speaks to her "inner goddess".  Ana's inner goddess is a cunt.  Fact.
• She rolls her eyes.  She does this so often, I expect she might be having petits mals.  She's probably epileptic.
• She is called "baby" by Christian.  If any man called me baby once, let alone 20 times, I would fucking shoot him in the face.  This might be why I'm not married to a multi-millionaire.

Anyway, give it a go.  It's great.  Anyone got any recommendations for a page-turner that isn't absolute shit?

Send in the muscle

Ploggers, Ploggers, Ploggers, I can only apologise for my tardiness in writing.  It's been a lovely but busy few weeks... which is no real excuse, as I actually managed to take a few days' annual leave.  My biggest problem at the moment is a massive backache, which makes sitting for any length of time (i.e. 5 minutes) really painful.  Until recently, I would balance the laptop on my tummy and tap away.  However, said tummy is now roughly the size of Mount Everest and the stupid laptop refuses to balance.

So I'm typing this as quickly as I can with a family-sized box of codeine next to me, just in case.  They don't really make family-sized boxes of codeine.  That wouldn't really be an appropriate marketing strategy.  They should though.  The first time I took it, I giggled at cheese in Tesco for approximately 15 minutes.

So I've been seeing a bunch of useless bastards healthcare professionals to try and sort the backache out, with somewhat limited success.  They're all lovely - just not terribly efficacious.  My physio in particular takes delight in hurting me.  It's a kind of deep tissue massage where she "releases pressure points" - this is technical terminology for getting her fingers or elbows or other evil pointy part of her body and jamming it into a part of my body which - until this point - wasn't hurting at all.  Apparently that's irrelevant, and it'll release pressure elsewhere.  I have pain in my spine and shoulder blades.  On Friday, she stuck her elbow into my arse.  Until I screamed.

Admittedly, at that point, I probably shouldn't have said, "Have you ever considered a career as a dominatrix?  I think they might earn more than physios."

Mental note: when someone has the wherewithal, the opportunity and quite literally the licence to cause you pain, perhaps suggesting they're a sex worker isn't the easiest route to a pain-free future.  You live, you learn.

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.