Someone Get the Stork a Sat Nav

I realise that to say I have neglected this blog is an understatement. My friend Mrs B has now shamed me into logging on and writing a post, as she has written so many more than me.

Unfortunately, my priorites have gone out of the window, and selfishly I have been a bit busy thinking about my myself, feeling fed up and just generally cursing the rest of the world.

Yes, I have not been what one might describe as the best of company.

My husband has been most understanding, especially when I am feeling really irritable and take it out on him.

My excuse? I am still pregnant.

It was bad enough reaching 40 weeks. As D - Day approached I finally started to feel relieved that it would all be over soon and I would get to meet my baby. The idea that I wouldn't have to suffer through any more heartburn, backache, cramp, frequent toilet trips and other delightful side effects got me through the last few days whilst I repeated a mantra to myself "not long now".

Unfortunately my baby has other plans. D - Day came and went and no baby. I might as well add here that my body has been giving me the odd signs that labour might be approaching such as the cramp and the backache but then it seems to change it's mind.

My mother came to the conclusion that just because my sister gave birth on her due date, then I would too. If not, I would certainly give birth within a couple of days. My due date (should you have forgotten) was 24th April. We are now on the 27the April. And there is still no sign of baby. The cramp is uncomfortable and constant. The tiredness doesn't ease off no matter how well I slept the night before and quite frankly, I am desperate. I am fed up, irritable and bored.

I finished work three and a half weeks ago, thinking that the baby would be here on or around it's due date. Of course, I don't actually think there's a chance that I could actually physically work now because believe it or not, being nearly 41 weeks pregnant is actually quite demanding. Even working the last couple of weeks was a struggle and I was looking forward to when I could finish for good.

Now, I feel bored and fed up. I am reluctant to go out, because not only am I terrified that labour might start in public it's actually quite painful to walk when you've got a full term baby dancing on your bladder. I stay at home for most of the day, and thankfully, whilst the weather has been nice it has meant I can enjoy the sun and read a few books rather than frying my brain with constant re runs of Jeremy Kyle and other day time telly trash. All I can say is thank God for authors like Jodi Picoult who actually make you think when you read their books otherwise, I don't think I would still be able to string a sentence together.

So, basically, on Saturday I will be one week late. On Friday I have an appointment with the midwife to see if we can get things kickstarted. At the same time I will also have an appointment made for an induction the following week. None of these procedures sound pleasant, and whilst I would rather baby had a helping hand rather than suffer another uncomfortable, irritable week, I was also quite hopeful that baby would come on her own. But currently, at 40 weeks plus 3 days I find the chances of this happening very slim.

Obviously, the Stork got lost. If it can make it here before Friday I would be really grateful. And if anyone's seen it flying around aimlessly, could they please get it a Sat Nav?

God Was A Man

For centuries there have been many debates on whether God was male or female. Men like to think that God was a man because they (think they) are bigger and better. Women think God was female because obviously, we are the superior breed.

But God was quite clearly a man because He gave women the ability to have children. This logic comes from the fact that God wasn't stupid and quite clearly thought women would be much more suitable for coping through pregnancies, childbirth and motherhood. Let's face it; we've all seen what happens when a man catches a cold.

There is no way a man would be able to cope with back ache, tiredness and heartburn in one go. Throw in morning sickness, hormonal outbursts and an ever growing tummy and you're looking at a man who would probably spend the entire nine months of pregnancy in bed, whinging that everything hurts and telling us that they are going to die.

Women on the other hand just get on with it. And even when it gets to the point where we feel like we're starting to fall apart, we still get on with it.

And starting to fall apart I am. I wake up in the morning feeling like I haven't slept at all. The other day I burst into tears because the photocopier at work was not behaving the way it should have been and I was getting stressed out. Then I started to feel like everything is completely pointless because I finish work in a few weeks and it just feels like I am going through the motions. And my memory has vanished into thin air. I can't remember anything. This, I am told, is another side effect of pregnancy, but is really frustrating.

One example is I bought two birthday cards at the beginning of the week for birthdays at work this weekend. I was supposed to take them with me yesterday afternoon but left them sitting on my kitchen counter. Not to worry, I told myself, I'll get their addresses and post them today. Get their addresses I did and wrote them down. Then I left the addresses in the drawer. It wasn't too bad though because I'd actually written them down I remembered what they were and I could still post the cards when I went into town this morning. So what did I do? Completely forgot that I was supposed to take the cards with me for posting. It seems really trivial but it is so frustrating and my husband told me last night that forgetting things wasn't a big deal and I shouldn't get stressed out about it.

Which is what makes a man a man and a woman a woman. Because women are efficient. And when we are inefficient we feel like we have let ourselves down. The birthday cards was just one example. I go to work in the morning and I forget to do jobs that I have been doing every morning for the last four years!

This has also convinced me that God was a man. He tried to reduce women to blubbering wrecks to bring us down, because not content with making us go through childbirth, He also gave pregnancy side effects. It was all part of a big plan to make us realise we are weak and that men are still better than us, but at the end of the day, we might be falling apart, but we still get on with it. We might get teary, we might get stressed out but we're still at work on time with no fake sickies, the housework still gets done and tea still gets made.

I'd like to see a man try that.

The Concept of Personal Space

It’s an unwritten rule that you allow every individual their personal space. You don’t stand too close to someone in a queue, you don’t get really close when you’re chatting to someone and you try and allow as much personal space as possible on a bus. We’ve all been on a bus at rush hour and someone who is larger than average sits next to you taking up not only all their seat, but squishing you up against the window and blocking the aisle with their legs all at the same time. It’s inconvenient but on a bus it’s sort of acceptable because buses just aren’t made to respect the rules of personal space.

So why is it we unconsciously follow the rules of personal space everyday but if you’re pregnant all those rules go out of the window?

People seem to think it’s their privilege to walk up to you and pat you on your tummy and I don’t know why. You wouldn’t do it normally so why do it to a pregnant person? If someone asked whether it was all right if they felt your bump that’s fine – I could live with that, but I cannot abide people walking up to me, crossing the boundaries of personal space and feeling my tummy as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

One person even went as far to lift my top up (yes, really) so she could get a good look at my bump. It didn’t matter that I’ve known her for a long time; I was shocked and horrified. Pregnant or not I do not go around baring my tummy to all despite the fact my husband was (and still is) desperate for me to show off my bump to all and sundry. I like to think that I have maintained a level of sophistication throughout my pregnancy and allowing people to lift my top up to look at my bump does not come under the category of sophistication.

I was mortified and speechless. Obviously I didn’t want to be rude and say that I actually found it unacceptable, as she is someone I have known for a while, but seriously, what was she thinking? My husband said the look on my face was one of pure disgust and yet he couldn’t actually see what the issue was. As you can imagine I made rather a quick exit as I was also feeling slightly embarrassed and decided the best way to handle the situation was to think nothing more of it.

Until the same person came up to me today to touch my bump. Again. Without permission. I thought she might have got an indication I wasn’t overly happy about what happened last time, but clearly not. Perhaps she thinks it’s acceptable but I most certainly do not. And yet, I’m still worrying about offending her because if I say something, she would be mortified, I am sure.

Sometimes I can’t but wonder what makes people think their behaviour is acceptable when most would regard it as not. I would not touch anyone’s bump, not even my closest friend’s without permission as it is crossing the boundary of personal space and something I am aware not everyone would be comfortable with. So if I feel that way, what makes other people think differently?

Perhaps I am overreacting. The person concerned is nice and friendly and is really excited about the baby. Perhaps this is her way of showing her enthusiasm for us and I know she doesn’t mean any harm. Different people are brought up in different environments with different rules and experiences (this is what makes us different) and whereas I am the sort of person who will always maintain a level of personal space no matter who it is I am with, there are others who are perhaps more comfortable with themselves and other people which allows them to invade personal space without a second thought.

Not Enough Attention

Following a short weekend away in Scotland last week, which, I might add, I was very much looking forward to, I decided that currently I am not receiving enough attention. Despite the fact that I spent most of Saturday evening at a friend's 21st birthday dinner being quizzed by a variety of people about my pregnancy this was clearly not enough.

On Sunday, we were visiting some friends and the plan was to have lunch with them before heading back home. So after about ten minutes of arriving, I decided to stage my attention seeking stunt by passing out. Yes, really. Unfortunately, as much as I wish it was, it was not planned, nor in actual fact was it funny. Because according to my family and my husband I didn't technically pass out as my eyes remained open throughout before eventually rolling up into the back of my head. Sounds lovely, doesn't it? I was unresponsive to the people around me, and my husband said had it not been for the other people around, he would have given me a good slap to try and bring me back round. Charming, but he was genuinely worried. But that isn't it. Because not content with scaring the living daylights out of everyone that was there, I decided to vomit as well. Whilst I was blacked out. Yes, really. The only thing I remember is feeling a little funny and thinking that I would ask for a glass of water. Then the buzzing in my head began and before I had time to react, I had already gone.

Coming back round, I genuinely did not know what had happened. I was staring into the bottom of a bucket which had obviously been thrust in front of me with no idea what it was there for. My first thought was "What's this for?" Then, as the rest of my senses kicked in I was aware of a commotion all around me and wondered what was going on, as the last thing I remember is everyone sitting around chatting. It took me a good few seconds to realise that the commotion was all about me. Then I realised I'd been sick everywhere. Which was not pleasant. Especially when you're in someone else's house and it's all over their cream carpet and sofa. So by the time the full realisation of what happened hit me I was feeling embarrassed, awful, upset, guilty and horrified. And for some reason kept insisting that I didn't know I was being sick because that seemed especially important to get across at the time.

So, as everyone was still staying for lunch I spent the next hour being watched very carefully (after being cleaned up of course). I had to nip out to the car because the heartburn was kicking in and I needed my trusty Gaviscon, I wanted some fresh air and I just wanted five minutes to myself to just calm down a bit. I must have been longer than I thought because my father - in - law came out to make sure I was OK but this was after everyone had been worrying that I'd passed out again in the snow but were reluctant to come and find me as no one wanted to seem over - bearing.

After that, as you can imagine I just wanted to get home. The shock of what had happened hadn't really passed and I can honestly say I have never wanted to go home as much as I wanted to at that moment. After the "episode" I also felt extremely tired but during the two hours or so it took to get home I was not allowed to snooze in the car as my husband was worrying that I'd pass out again and he wouldn't be able to do anything if he was driving. If I'd been silent for more than five minutes I'd get asked if I was all right. And yes, I know it is only because he was worried about me and he wanted to get home as much as I did.

Following that incident everyone insisted that I go and get checked out by a midwife, but my husband decided that I wasn't to leave the house and I had to insist on a home visit. The midwifes though don't like cases such as this so refer you to the doctor. Doctors, unfortunately, don't really like getting involved with pregnant women, so after an appointment where the doctor ummmed and aahhed for a little while he decided he was going to refer me to the Delivery Suite at the Infirmary where they have lots of special machines they can hook me up to make sure everything is OK.

To cut a long story short, after spending most of the day at the Infirmary the doctor there, and the midwives decided that, in fact, there wasn't anything wrong with me and it could have just been a "blip". Just what I wanted to hear.

Unfortunately I had to be back at the Health Centre on Wednesday morning for an injection, which I wasn't looking forward to, but was not getting stressed about with either. Not content with the amount of attention I received on Sunday and Monday I decided to pull another stunt.

Yup. In the Health Centre. With plenty of doctors and nurses. Funny. Not. I was feeling funny and really anxious not to pass out again after what happened Sunday, I tried not to pass out again by drinking lots of plenty of water, getting near a window to get some fresh air, walking around and even sitting leaning forward. Then the buzzing kicked in, which, of course made me panic.

Abandoning everything on the chair I rushed to the toilet where I locked the door and spent five minutes splashing cold water on my face. Then I realised it was stupid to lock the door as no one would be able to get to me if I did pass out. But with the help of cold water it passed. Until I sat down again when the buzzing kicked in.

Two more trips to the toilet later, it wasn't getting any better and I was desperate for the midwife to see me. I might add I was walking around, shaking my head much to the amusement of the other patients who were watching me with interest. Not one of them bothered to ask if I was all right.

By this time I could hardly see where I was going, there were black spots in front of my eyes and I seemed really far away. I managed to stagger to reception where I garbled something to her about seeing the midwife because I was really struggling. Completely oblivious to the way I was feeling she asked me to repeat myself before telling me that the midwife was calling me at that minute. So I dashed back to the waiting area, gathered my stuff, still not being able to see properly, and went through to where the midwives rooms are. But there wasn't a midwife. And I didn't know what room she was in. And by this time I was really close to passing out completely because I was losing control. And panicking. I kind of shouted out "Midwife! Help!" She came out, took one look at me and so grateful to see her I kind of barged past her into the room she had come out of. Taking one look at me she knew I wasn't well and then she gave me instructions to help me try and overcome the dizziness, light headiness, buzzing etc that was going on in my head.

After sitting down leaning forward the dizziness still hadn't passed, and eventually she made me lie down before going off to get me a sweet tea and some biscuits. She was really nice about it, and I did apologise for barging past her. She said that I had actually looked quite wild. But her diagnosis? Lack of oxygen to the brain and there isn't anything they can really do. Oh, and it sounds like something I may be prone to now. Which, I just wanted to hear.

And, oh, by the way, did I mention that I've still got eight weeks of work left which means that this could quite possibly happen whilst I'm at work? I had to ring my boss yesterday and I mentioned that I'd had a couple of episodes where I had passed out and nearly come close to passing out again, but, being a boss, he decided the best way to react to this news was to make a joke and said that if he came down and I wasn't at my desk, he'd be sure to check under it. Which I found hilariously funny. Not.

Because even though all this might sound rather amusing, it's not. I was absolutely terrified on Wednesday morning and spent ten minutes crying hysterically down the phone to my husband when I finally got back home.

And for the time being I have been banned from driving and am currently house bound. My husband is trying to look after me, but quite frankly, at the moment, I'm too scared to go anywhere on my own so am quite happily following his orders.

Pyjama Wearers R Not Us

There is one story in this week newspapers which I cannot possibly ignore. In case you're not aware of it, Tesco has banned pyjama wearers from visiting a particular store. The offenders, young mums, claim that they do not have time to get dressed before taking the kids to school. Now, everyone (pyjama wearers, I presume) are criticising Tesco for taking things too far, and that wearing your pyjamas whilst doing your grocery shopping is not offensive.

To be quite honest I don't care whether people find it offensive or not. What horrifies me is that these people claim they don't have time to get dressed before taking their kids to school. Well, surely the answer is obvious? Get out of bed earlier! I think it is a pathetic excuse and not only that but surely anyone who has a bit of self respect would not take their kids to school wearing pyjamas let alone stopping off at the supermarket. And what sort of lesson are they teaching their children? Are they going to turn into a breed of pyjama wearers who don't bother getting out of their jammies at all?

Besides, if they genuinely don't have time to get dressed themselves (although the only reason for this is laziness and bad organisation) surely it can't be that hard to just throw on a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a jumper? At least then you'd look half decent.

Quite frankly I get embarrassed if I have to open the door to the postman wearing my pyjamas, and I certainly do not cross the threshold wearing my much loved jammies, not even to take the bins out or when I've left my brush in the car.

I love my pyjamas and on more on one occasion I have gotten changed into them after a long day. But just because I love my jim jams it does not mean I'll be doing my supermarket shop in them anytime soon.

Personally, I think Tesco's got it right. These people need some motivation to get their lives in order, and they obviously don't think much of themselves if they can't even be bothered to get dressed before they leave the house. By banning this lazy breed of people, at least someone is giving them some sort of motivation to at least change out of their pyjamas before nipping out for the milk.

Pregnant? Beware The Voices of Doom

Today I am 27 weeks pregnant plus three days. I am not far off being seven months gone which means all I can say is THREE MONTHS TO GO! And that I should give myself a big pat on the back for getting here.

When we first found out about the little bundle of joy due in April we were both really excited. "Let's not get too carried away," we said to ourselves as at 5 weeks pregnant anything can happen. Then we had the first scan and there was the baby on the screen, literally nothing more than a blob waving at us. But it was still a bit early to get excited. We were desperate not to tempt fate and we only really relaxed after the second scan when we found out everything is progressing as it should. Fantastic.

But the trouble with being pregnant is that women who have experienced the delights of pregnancy themselves decide to share the more unpleasant aspects of pregnancy at every opportunity. By about 15 weeks I'd been told how I could expect my hands and feet to swell up and how, without a doubt I'd get stretch marks. How I'd put weight on so quickly that within a couple of months I'd resemble the Fat Lady at the circus. And how, by seven months I'd be so b big I'd be waddling like a penguin.

I would like to point out that at nearly seven months I do not resemble the Fat Lady and nor am I waddling. At the moment my hands and feet are the same size they were before I fell pregnant and touch wood, there isn't a single stretch mark in sight. Granted, I still have three months to go, but I do wish that those women (who were only trying to be helpful I am sure) had kept these revelations to themselves.

On the other hand whilst these women seemed to enjoy making me squirm with the idea of stretch marks and waddling, not one of them told me how surreal, how lovely it is to actually feel your baby move. And to be able to share it with your partner and enjoy his excitement when he feels the baby kick for the first time. Not to mention the warm fuzzy feeling you yourself feel when you hear the baby's heartbeat for the first time.

I won't lie to you. There are some days when I feel utterly uncomfortable with back ache, heartburn and lack of sleep, and let's not forget the morning sickness I experienced at the beginning. But what all those women forgot to tell me was that in the end, it will be worth it and if they could do it all again, they would.

The Incompetence of Bankers

In case you hadn't worked it out by now I am the sort of person who likes a simple life, which as far as I'm concerned is not a lot to ask.

So the fact that my bank makes banking so much more complicated that it needs to be is something that doesn't impress me much.

There is a particular account that I have had with my bank since I was old enough to open one and this account has been changed more often than Jordan's hair. However, it is something that I've put up with and got over. After all, banking bosses know best, right?

That is, until about a month ago my bank wrote a nice letter to me telling me that my account was changing again and they would be sending me a new card. In a separate letter they also told me that another account I hold with them is also changing to the same format. OK, I thought. It seemed straightforward enough and I could live with it.

Until the cards came. Some idiot had the brilliant brainwave of making these new cards identical with no way of differentiating between the two. Identical cards for two completely different accounts. Does that sound like common sense to you? My husband, fed up of me ranting about this idiocy asked me why I didn't know my account numbers as this would be enough for me to tell the cards apart. Rubbish! I've never memorised my card numbers and besides why would I need to? The little pictures on the card were always enough for me to tell the difference.

So, the bank was not really in my good books anyway and today I decided to visit my local branch to pay some money in, a task which I felt should be relatively straightforward. I was greeted at the door by a miserable looking member of staff who proceeded to tell me the bank was closing for ten/fifteen minutes for "security reasons" and could I call back then? I replied by saying I didn't have ten minutes and asked if I could use the quick pay machine, as well, it's quick pay.

Nope. I'd have to come back in ten minutes. Really annoyed with her I lost my rag a little (blame it on the hormones) and told her the bank was useless.

Ten minutes later I manged to find time to nip back before queuing up to pay my money in. I was greeted by another miserable looking member of staff. In light of the ten minute closure (which, by the way, was a huge inconvenience) and the identical bank cards I decided enough was enough and I would close my account. So once the cashier handed me my paying in book (without a smile) I asked how I go about closing an account and the conversation went something like this:

"You need to make an appointment."

"What for? I only want to close the account."

"You need to sit down and discuss it with someone and we need to either give you a cheque for the balance or transfer the money into a different account." (Translate: we're going to sit you down for an hour and try and persuade you to keep your account with us.)

"Don't worry, I'll be transferring the money across to a different account anyway. When can I make an appointment for?

"When do you want to come in?"

"Well, you tell me what you've got. I work 9 - 5."

"We open 9:30 to 4:3o."

"That's no good. What about lunchtime?"

"We don't see people over lunch."

"Well, when do you expect me to come in then?"

"Just a minute."

The cashier then proceeded to speak to another cashier who then agreed that they could see me at lunchtime after all.

Perhaps this is another clever scheme bankers have come up with. They obviously refuse to accommodate their customers which means customers must find a way of accommodating them. And who is going to take time off work just so they can close a bank account? Exactly.

Overall, I imagine it would be easier to break into Fort Knox.

The Complicated Process of Clearing Out

We've all done it. Woken up one morning thinking, right, today is the day that I clear out that room. You've put it off for long enough, now you just want it over and done with. You've no plans, it's raining outside so today is a good a day as any.

And I'm sure, like the rest of us, you've started off with gusto, making your way to the room armed with bin bags and cleaning products telling yourself that if you've not used something in the last six months, it's going.

The first couple of hours are normally quite productive and we all do seem to follow a set routine by starting off with the general rubbish. Then the paperwork gets tackled because that's relatively easy to sort through too as it gets filed or binned. It's only once you've got past the easy part that the clearing out process becomes so much more complicated.

You find something that you thought you'd lost for ages. You start digressing by reading or playing with things long forgotten. You start getting bored. It's already been three or four hours and you are surrounded by bin bags and rubbish with no end in sight. Then there are the bits that you really don't know what to do with. That teddy from your childhood. The other three hundred teddies that your partner bought you. A particular framed photograph. The idea is to clear the room out completely but what to do with those darned bears? Charity shop or attic? Either way, you know you'll never see those poor teddies again because the beauty of attics is you can throw things up there willy nilly and never have to worry about it again (until it's time to clear the attic out, but that's OK, it's a good ten years down the line!)

And the reason I have discovered just how complicated the clearing out process is? Because our office is being converted into the nursery. Which means everything has to go. Everything. The desk got moved into the spare bedroom but before any of the furniture could be moved it took a whole two days to clear everything out. Two weeks later there are still bits left which I just don't know what to do with.

Thankfully we are nearly there. What's being thrown out has been thrown out. What's being relocated has been relocated. And what's going into the attic has just gone up. But it meant that I had to be hard and sadly, some of those poor bears just did not make it.

It's tough being a girl.

Looking Back: Deep Fried Mars Bar? Mmm, Yes Please!

I'm not the sort of person who likes trying new things. Don't get me wrong, I'm open minded and I will try most things at least once but more often than not I end up not liking it. Food in particular. I like my food plain and simple, a fact which my husband of two years still has trouble getting used to. He cannot understand for the life of him how anyone can eat a cheese sandwich without any chutney or how one person can eat pasta without the sauce. I can because quite simply I don't care for accompaniments. And yes, I am the sort of person who NEVER uses salt and pepper after the food has been served.

Now there is one thing that I have never tried and absolutely refuse to, and that's olives. If I thought long and hard about it, I'm sure I could come up with other food stuffs that I would not be willing to eat, but for the time being, we'll just stick to olives.

My husband loves olives. The only thing I like about them is the feta cheese that sometimes accompanies them! Olives, as far as I'm concerned, should never have been invented by God or science or whatever else you believe about how the world started. They look horrible, they smell horrible and the mere thought of eating one actually makes me want to gag.

So, basically, I am not particularly keen on trying new things. And yet oddly enough, when I heard about the deep fried Mars Bars that had suddenly taken hold, I actually found myself wanting to try one. Shock horror. My husband thought I'd gone mad but whenever we went near a chippy I'd always check to see if they did deep fried Mars Bars. Unfortunately I didn't have much luck and although I didn't forget about the deep fried Mars Bars the chances of actually trying one were looking slim.

And then last year, we were on holiday in Yorkshire with my husband's family. We'd planned a day out to Whitby which of course included fish n chips for lunch. Let's face it, there's no way you can go to Whitby and not try the fish. And chips. We'd all gone our separate ways and my husband and I found a decent looking takeaway serving fish n chips.

So were standing in the queue. I happened to glance at the board and lo and behold there were those four words which I'd never thought I'd find:

DEEP FRIED MARS BAR

I excitedly poked my husband in the ribs who looked up at the board, then at my face before saying, "I take it you want one, then?"

Well, duh! My dream had come true! A deep fried Mars Bar at last!

Obviously, after we had found some seating, the Mars Bar was the first thing I unwrapped before staring at it apprehensively for a few moments. I'd waited such a long time for this. What if it was really horrible?

Staying open minded is the key and besides, my husband was really eager to try it too. So we had some each, and, oh boy, it is one of the yummiest things I have ever tasted. My husband felt the same and it was all we could do not to go and get another one! Trust me, it was worth the wait!

Everyone thought we'd lost the plot completely, raving about how good this deep fried Mars Bar was, but more importantly I had finally tried it.

And the point I'm making? You should be prepared to try everything at least once because you might be pleasantly surprised. Except olives. They definitely do not count.

Lushed Up And Liking It

Well, today is Thursday and it’s, what two days since my first blog? Considering how my very disorganised friend has managed to write two more since her first (very funny) blog I’ve got some catching up to do….

Yesterday, I decided to have a bath. There’s no reason why you should find this interesting, but why don’t you just humour me because, in my house, a bath is a BIG event.

Let’s put it like this. In reality I’m probably what you might call quite a sad person. I have two best friends. I work 9 – 5 (most days) and when I’m not working I’m sorting out my customers trying ever so hard not to lose patience with the ones who are never home. I very rarely go out in the evenings and is it just me, or has TV got really boring over the last few months? Not only that, but being six months pregnant does have its downside such as bad heartburn and a back that never stops aching. Roll on April, that’s all I can say. Anyway, getting back to the point, sometimes, I feel like a bath and when I feel like a bath, out comes the book I’m currently reading, the bathroom door gets locked and no one sees me for two hours or sometimes even longer. Seriously. The first time we went on holiday with my husband’s family, his aunt thought I’d drowned.

BUT, my very good friend, Mrs B, introduced me to this fantastic shop called Lush, which makes bath time so much more fun! (Imagine a child at Christmas…) I start off with running the water before getting out my lovely smelling bubble bar and crumbling some of that under the tap to get lots and lots of lovely smelling bubbles. Once I’ve been in for a good couple of hours, out comes the soap, then the shower scrub, before I finally get out, dry myself down and rub some sparkly massage bar all over me. Yes, before bed. And yes, it does make me sparkly, but who cares? The truth is I didn’t actually realise that the massage bar was sparkly before I bought it, but shhhh, no one needs to know, do they? Besides, it smells very nice. And it makes me feel good and at the end of the day, that’s the most important thing, isn’t it?

The only trouble is, by the time I’m done, the whole of the upstairs floor smells like a Lush store but at least it means we don't have to buy air freshener….



Today I woke up feeling very excited at the thought I was going to get to drive again after three weeks. Due to the snow and ice over Christmas and in January we felt it would be safer for me not to drive, and no, this wasn’t because I would be putting other drivers at risk (you were thinking it!). Being six months pregnant we were both worried about what damage a fall could do so we felt the bus was a safer option as it would drop me off straight in town.

Even then it was still a nightmare having to navigate the slippery pavements. If I was an accomplished ice skater wearing a pair of ice skates I would have been just fine, but like the rest of the nation, I had to resort to baby steps, hanging on to ridiculously low walls whilst slipping and sliding without much dignity back and forth from work.

So you can imagine how thrilled I was to find out that most of the ice had completely thawed yesterday and the pavements were finally safe to walk on. Not only that, but it meant, after three weeks, I could finally drive to work. I went to bed last night, completely chilled out thanks to my Lush filled two hours and content with the idea that I wouldn’t have to worry about running for the bus or breaking my neck.

And what happens this morning? I wake up to find that once again the town has turned white overnight. AGAIN! Haven’t we had enough? I spent about ten minutes ranting and raving to myself about the snow and the Council’s lack of action before I realised that (a) I’d better get a move on because I would not only be subjecting myself to the ice and snow again, but I’d also be late for work and (b) the snow wasn’t as bad as I’d originally thought and it would be perfectly safe for me to drive.

All I can say is thank the Lord that it has completely thawed out again and we don’t have to suffer through another week like the one we’ve just had. I honestly don’t think I could do it all over again. It’s bad enough getting stressed out when you get to work. It’s even worse when you get stressed out thinking about how the hell you’re going to get to work in the first place.

24, Married and Pregnant

OK, so here I am writing my first ever (non fictional) blog. My friend thought it would be a good idea for me as a wannabe writer and she says I would be very good at it. Me, I'm not so sure. She has been convinced from day one that I am a good writer and now I am displaying my writing skills for all the world to see I think it will get to the point where I will actually get kicked off blog sites like these because my writing is that bad.

My friend on the other hand IS a good writer and she doesn't believe me. Let me state for the record that I have always believed she should attempt to write a book which I also think will be far better than anything I can ever come up with.

Anyway, seeing how this blog is supposed to be about me, I'd better start writing about me, although why anyone would actually be interested in me and my life is beyond me. But, hypothetically, let's pretend I have a very keen following so at least I can try and work out how to make my oh so boring life sound really cool and exciting.

Here are the facts. I am 24 years old, married and six months pregnant (which I cannot still quite believe). I work sort of full time at a solicitors office and I am an Avon Rep. Cue Avon Calling jokes.

So it all depends on what you want to know. My job is a job. It's not a career and it's not exactly what you would call fulfilling and rewarding. But it is a job which is something considering the current economic climate. And the added bonus is that I actually sort of enjoy it.

It is possible to sort of enjoy a job. I like the company of the people I work with. The work I do is challenging and although I might have days where I hate everyone from my bosses to the clients, on a general day to day basis, it's not bad as far as jobs go.

On the side I am an Avon Rep which is quite rewarding if you get a good area with good customers, which I seem to have. It can get a bit repetitve at times and I'm sure anyone else would feel the same if they had to do the same thing over and over again but it sort of works like this. You take your brochures out, you collect them back in. You take the next lot out and collect those back in. You take them out again...well, you get the picture. Then you gather all your orders and send them in to Avon before the deadline. The actual delivery comes one week later when you have to package all your orders up and take them out to your customers. And don't forget, Avon only works if you put the effort in which means, wind, rain, or in the current weather situation, snow and ice, you go out regardless. And then once you've actually taken your deliveries out the whole routine starts again.

I'm not exactly selling Avon as a good business venture, am I? But it's worth it for the commission you get out of it, and you have a bit of a banter with the customers which is always a bit of a laugh.

And the third and final thing you want to know about me? I'm six months pregnant and loving (almost) every minute of it. Let's put it like this; dashing to the toilet every moring for eighteen weeks to chuck up your breakfast is not my idea of fun. Feeling hungry even when you've eaten which then makes you sick? Sounds lovely. But once I managed to get past the first eighteen weeks it's actually kind of been fun. Feeling the baby move. Finding out the sex. Hearing it's heartbeat. Buying baby clothes.

To cut a long story short, the due date is April 24th and my husband and I feel that it can't come round fast enough. Sods law says though, after the baby is born we'll be craving this time where we actually had a bit of peace and quiet!