Sunday 9: Who Lives In a House Like This?

I have decided why I have decided I like Bristol. It has Art Trails. In case you don't know what these are, they are like slime trails but better. In fact, they can be most-succinctly described as a fantastic opportunity to be very very nosy and snoop around people's houses pretending to look at the very dodgy Art they have hung on their walls. In reality, the trails are not about the Art at all. You trundle in, wipe your feet to show you have manners, look at books upon book shelves, admire the Ikea rug you once considered buying yourself, think 'Oohhh, I like that sculpture on the stairs,' even though it's not in the 'for sale' category and resist the overwhelming urge to steal things when no one is looking. I mean, come on, it's a burglar's paradise. Open houses, quiet moments. I don't mean steal anything expensive, like a china cup or Plasma TV - obviously, anything of value will have been tucked-away. Just something, anything. A book? An ashtray? Or is that just me? I'm worried it's just me. I blame my father. He used to make us steal napkins and pepper-grinders from restaurants when he was drunk.... he thought it was funny...)
This weekend was Bedminster's turn to host an Art Trail. Bedminster is not - as it's name might suggest, like Pieminster; full of delicious beds to sleep on, crusty with crunchy toppings of pillows and feather-filled duvets (my God, what a dream-place that would be). It is instead a suburb that's impossibly hard to navigate. There is no obvious way in our out; you have to - uh hum - enter through the rear, so to speak. To be fair, someone obviously spotted that it was a never-ending maze and tried to help by naming the two main streets 'North' Street and 'East' Street, which you would have thought might give the game away, yet still, every time I look at my Bristol A to Z, I am puzzled that Bedminster seems the wrong way up. Everything is at the wrong and opposite end of the road from how my brain understands them to be. Perhaps whoever stapled my map together put that page in wrongly.
We made it anyway, my old school friend and I. At 5pm on the Sunday (ok, so the Art Trail had been on all weekend and only had an hour left to run.. but we were busy, right). Into one house; lovely sea-scape Art, nice books on dusted shelves (tempted to steal a poetry one). Resisted. Then onto house number two. And who lives in a house like this? Well, that was easy - I knew the person. She makes sculptures (little ugly oiks and gnomes and the such like, though of course, I didn't tell her that). I said 'Oohh, aren't they lovely, have you sold many?' No - she hadn't. But she had sold a few hundred cards to make it all worthwhile. But you see, the absolute best thing about these Art Trails is that some of the lovely people, as well as offering up bad Art for sale, also offer cake. At this house - a cup of tea, and home-made cake for £1. Cake? For a pound? A whole cake? Me - hungry. My friend - hungover. We set-up camp and slowly made my way through at least £5's worth. The Art may be crap - but the cakes were fantastic.

May 6: Polling day

Voting is an uphill struggle. Literally. One excruciatingly steep and winding road to begin, then one very busy thoroughfare to cross at a time of blood-draining light-headedness, then two more lung-bursting slopes to get to the polling station. Clearly, no one cares if eight-month pregnant women make it or not. Let alone if they have enough energy left to put a cross in the right box. I did not appreciate the slog. More importantly, I did not appreciate the fact there wasn't any cake. How to get more people to vote? Provide cake. Easy. During my arduous journey, I also realised I am very bad at crossing roads. I am used to just darting out in front of any old thing and being able to make it across in one piece. My mind hasn't yet caught up with my body. I can no longer dart any more than a rhinoceros can tip-toe. I cannot even attempt a quickened-pace. I think, 'Ooohhh cripes, didn't see him coming, better hurry.' My body thinks, 'No'. As a result, my ill-timed road-crossing meant I just nearly got squished by an artic. Still, at least I was on the way back. My vote to make the world a better place would have still counted - even if I'd been steam-rollered.

May 4: Interesting Fact

Bump is technically due in 26 days. For some reason, I think he / she may come early (I hope not. I like eating cake. And I haven't even done the 'scone challenge'). My friend who is going to take naked photographs of me (and Bump; and scar; and cellulite; and very cold nipples) is defying the ash cloud and flying off on holiday tomorrow. She's back on the 16th. At last, I've got a bit of chat for Bump. I'm telling him / her in a very motherly sort of way not to come until my friend gets back and takes her pictures. I want something to remind me of this time - even though it's been pretty much as black as black can be. It will be nice to have some (photoshopped) pictures of me looking sexy with my big bump (and scar; and cellulite; and very cold nipples). The pictures will be something to look back on, to reminisce over, to post on my blog (joke). So, uh, yeh.. if you see Bump out and about.. will you mention it too?

May 2: Weekend

My mum has had arthritis since she was twenty-one. One day, sat on a train, it just came on, as far as I can recall. Her knees were locked - she couldn't get up. Since then, she has battled on and off with it. It's always there but sometimes it's better than other times. Over the years, she's tried all sorts to ease it. Fad diets - no caffeine, no fruit. Various drugs. Steroids. Sunshine. Hot tubs. Holidays to de-stress. Lately, she's been on infusions of a new drug as yet not licenced by NICE. It's been doing her good until now. For the past month, she's been in awful pain. Not that she moans. She never moans. And if she does, then you know it's bad. My sister rang me in tears today. She'd spoken to mum this morning. Mum was terribly distressed as she wasn't able to open her hand. It had seized up in a claw; crippled; contracted. All this while the builders are at work - converting the double garage in her new house into a studio - a beautiful place where she can paint to her heart's content. She's a watercolour artist, and teacher, and very very good. When she was younger, it came down to a choice of being a pianist and teacher, or artist and teacher. She's often said it was a good job she wasn't a pianist, what with her crooked hands. Painting, despite the pain, has always been possible. I don't think I - as her daughter - ever pay this horrid disease the attention it deserves. I never really imagine how desperate it must be to have your hand stuck in a claw, unable to be opened, to have no control over this fusion of your joints; to have a feeling of your body curling in on itself. What a sickening illness. Arthritis - I want to say. Just hold off. Hold off so mum can paint in her studio. Paint the grey cows that lumber past the green, sloping, oak-tree lined field her window backs on to; paint the buzzards that patrol like fighter-jets; paint the sky. Hold off, I ask. Just for a little while longer. Just hold off.

April 30: What the...

My hypno-birth teacher also told me to do something else in preparation for birth: to 'massage my perineum'. I was not entirely sure what this involved so have just looked it up in my accompanying book. I quickly snapped it shut again. I think it should be made illegal.

April 29: Talk to me

My hypnobirth teacher keeps asking if I am talking to my baby. The ‘hypno’ philosophy seems to be that birth is a joint process. It’s not something that just I do alone, it’s something that Bumpette is involved in too. It’s teamwork, apparently - with Bumpette in charge (as she knows how to do it). Phew. I'm glad one of us does. I haven't got a bloody clue. The hypno-talking is also designed to make mothers more aware that their babies are already alive and kicking - they're just being a bit antisocial and haven't come out to play yet.
Each session, my teacher asks: ‘And how is the conversation going?’ I don’t really know what to say. I’m quite bad at talking to Bumpette. I do normally manage a hearty good morning after I’ve woken up (only polite I suppose.. not nice to ignore someone who’s sharing your bed with you). But after that, what can I say, really?Would you mind awfully getting your foot out of my ribs? Could you please move two inches to the left to avoid crushing my bladder? Would you like honey or jam on your toast? I do think about Bump an awful lot, trundling things over in my pea-sized brain, wondering what he / she will look like / be like. (I nearly fell off my bike the other day day-dreaming. Well, in fact, I nearly cycled into a low-lying fence at the end of a cycle path. Who invented those things?)
But, more often that not, when I think about what to say to Bumpette, the only word that springs to mind is 'sorry'. Sorry Bumpette, I want to say, for all this mess, for the way it’s turned out; for everything. Sorry it’s all so sad and heart-breakingly painful. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Then I want to reassure him / her, to say as my mum says to me: 'Don’t worry, it will all be ok. it will work out, it will all be fine.' For some reason, though, I think Bumpette's doing ok. I don't think they're miserable. Don't think he / she needs a shrink just yet. I think he / she will do alright in this big, beautiful world. Ignorance is bliss, after all.

April 28: Gordon's gaff

Uh oh. Gordon's done a gaff. Not a guff - silent but deadly. But a gaff - unfortunately for him, not silent but very very deadly. Note to Gordon: Don't make nasty comments with your microphone on. In fact, did your mother never tell you 'if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all.' He's out of the running now. Mrs Bigot has got him by the throat. Cameron's going to lynch him. Never mind. He can retire, and save the third world from poverty, which is what he's always wanted to do anyway. Or open a cafe. Gordon's Gaff. Nice ring to it.

April 26: Tired

I'm sorry to be so very very dull... and to whinge.. but I am just so very very tired. Do I need more iron in my blood, I wonder... as you do when you are this tired. Would it do me some good? I may crawl to my nearest iron-ore mine and start licking the walls. I'm so tired, I have not even the energy to fill my dishwasher (actually, I often struggle with this but today more than ever). My house is just filthy; covered in a layer of cement-dust from the building work. And an extra layer of my mess - and Bump's - everywhere you look. I do not know where to start. At the moment, my sofa comprises a moses basket, a cot mattress, a buggy, a blanket, a painting and a hoover nozzle. If I look hard, perhaps I will find some mice have moved in and are nesting among the cushions. I do not care that I do not have a sofa. I will sit on the floor. Or lie on the floor. I will sleep on the floor. The builders won't mind stepping over my whale-like carcass on their way to the garden, I'm sure. I could go upstairs to sleep but it is worse. Bump's room is a dumping ground. He / she better not come early or they will be forced to live in the shed. Do you think I can get a cleaner? It's only me here. Is that acceptable? On the grounds of exhaustion? Or would-rather-sleep-in-the-sun-tion. Or simply-can't-be-bothered-tion? It's just so dull - cleaning. Perhaps it's a good job I have messed-up and am not confined to a life as a 'house-wife'. I cannot clean. I cannot iron. I cannot cook. I cannot stay awake. Imagine someone had taken me on as an 'all-singing, all-dancing wifey' in the olden days. I'd have been sacked in no time.