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.

April 26: Election

Bristol held the 'Sky TV' debate a few days ago. It was pretty exciting. I tried, belatedly, to get a press pass. Sky told me I could join the local media and talk to members of the audience afterwards but I thought, 'that would only be worth it if Clegg did a really loud fart while the cameras weren't on him,' and I didn't fancy my chances.
The Sky footage made Bristol look fantastic, though. Sunshine. A river. A canal. Galleries and ice-cream-licking yummy mummies. I cycled past the gallery where it was being held about an hour or so before it started. Lots of police. And men walking the streets who I think were meant to be covert under-cover detectives but looked very obvious in their large overcoats and ear-pieces. Put Bristol on the map though. Sky could have chosen any city but they picked this one. Made us feel important.
Got my Labour election campaign leaflet through the door today. Bristol South. Dawn Primarolo. Two things, I think. One, Primarolo is a very cool name, especially when you spell it out. Should be used in phonics lessons. Two, she has a very shiny face. Perhaps it's the glare from the camera but there's no mistaking it. Dawn shiny-face Primarolo. I'll vote for you. I don't know who designs these posters for politicians but you'd have thought they'd put more of an effort in. Saw the leaflet for the Labour chap in west Bristol the other day. It was a) out of focus and b) contained a picture of him in a hard hat, standing next to a builder. That was the main photo. I mean, come on. Let's try a bit harder here, shall we. What is politics besides sales after all? Do hard hats do it for people? Do shiny faces? What does Gordon say? Don't judge me on my personality? Perhaps he should add - or my leaflets either.

April 25: Committees

Desperate times. I am still on letter 'A' of my 50,000-strong baby name book. At this rate, he / she will be called 'A very bad name'.
Mum's garden. Blazing sunshine. Glass of Pimms. Middle-sister takes charge of the book. This child will be named by committee.

Sister: Afrika?
Me: That's where it was probably conceived. Maybe not.
(Stern look from mother)
Sister: Ambria?
Me: Sounds like Ambrosia Rice Pudding.
Sister: Achtung? Agoo? Adiv?
Me: A div? Love it. Great name.
Sister: Alvin?
Me: Simon and Theodore? No, he is not a chipmunk.
Sister: Beaver?
Me: No thanks. You can't call a child 'Beaver'.
Sister: Berk? Bjorn?
Mum: Sounds like the Abba singer.
Sister: Burl?
Me: Sounds like hurl.
Sister: Churl then?
Me: Uh, no.
Sister: Devon?
Me: Ambrosia Devon Custard.
Sister (laughing): Dingbang. Call him Dingbang.
Me: No.
Sister: Dirk?
Me: Really?
Sister: Egor? Elvis?
Me: Fantastic. I'll call this child Elvis.

April 23: Pass

Had an on-the-phone row with Father-to-be (very loudly; and out on my street, quite embarrassingly, as the builders had congregated in my house). Which is better? To row in front of your neighbours? Or your builders? I'm not quite sure. FTB asked (very kindly) if he should come over this weekend to help; if he should fit me in on his way up north to see the new baby. He also said: 'It will bring me closer to you and Bump.' I said, 'Maybe not. I don't need jobs doing at the moment, thanks (as the house is in building-work chaos). Why don't you just go up-north to your family and enjoy the new arrival.' Of course, the real reason is I just feel a bit exposed at the moment. It's too tricky. We are not together. He's made it abundantly clear that the 'Indian powers that be' won't allow it. So, in a way, what's the point of him coming to my house (especially on such a sunny weekend when I want to go out and play). And why does he want to get closer to me when he 'can't' be with me? But, of course, I'm aware that I started this whole 'integration policy' and told him he had hitherto been 'very unsupportive' so perhaps I should have just said, 'Yes, come' and embraced the awkwardness.
If I'd have done that, it might have spared an argument. As it was, it all splurged out. If he doesn't come, he might not see me until after Bump is born, he says. Correct. What happens then, he asks. What does he do? Is it still worth him battling? What battle, I ask? The battle - to try and get his family to accept Bump and I, so we can all be one big happy family. Sorry but I wasn't really aware he'd been battling. Not seen many War wounds. No armour. He doesn't need to battle, I think. He just needs to tell them: 'I'm seeing my child, and I'm going to try and be the best dad I can. And I'm going to try and mend the damage with the white bird.' Deal with it. Not so much a battle but a Napoleonic decision. He'd never make a general.
What am I meant to say when he asks if the battle is still worth waging? How about 'I don't bloody know. Pass. Next question, please.' He is so infuriatingly stuck, so pathetically powerless, so imprisoned in his merry-go-round mental torture.
And the longer it goes on - with no clear leadership / action from him - the more I just give up and get on with my life and my future. It's not that bleak, either. The future's bright. The future's Orange. It's luminously exciting. But then, of course, it's back to the same old thing. I relent, say: 'You can come tomorrow if you want to, that will be fine.' And I tell him that after Bump is born, it's a different kettle of fish - as he'll be coming to see him / her (if he decides to). I won't be able to say 'no, don't come' then. If he's having a relationship with the child, then that's got to be sorted. But he says - as he always does (I can recite this now): 'But what relationship will that be? I will be one percent dad. I won't be able to give it anything of my life. I'll never be able to take it to see my parents. It will still be a secret. I'll never be able to be a proper dad. What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?'
I just feel he's going to get increasingly sadder about it all. He will see the new shiny nephew, and how excited the parents are. And, of course, the black sheep cousin will be having a child with his white girlfriend. What's he going to think with all the babies about, with everyone getting on with their lives. He's going to know he could have had me (and I'm pretty hot, I must tell you. You should see my legs; not to mention my scar) and Bump. He really could have had one smashing multi-racial, go-get-the-world full-of-fun family. What's he got instead? A job. Parents. A nephew. And still pressure to 'find a woman and settle down - or get some Punjabi virgin off a boat - and be a good Indian dutiful son'. Do what was always expected of him. It's like being offered an all-expenses-paid year-long round-the-world trip in a £70,000 yacht, accompanied by a netball team from Honolulu. Or a weekend in a B&B in Blackpool. Well, perhaps that's not the best analogy. But you get my drift. I don't know. Perhaps Blackpool's got more going for it than meets the eye. Donkeys, that must be it. It's full of donkeys.

April 22: Grump

My builder. Did I say I liked him? I take it back. 'You know that quote of £3,000 I gave you for your back wall. Well, I miscalculated. I can only do half the work for that. I'll have to do you a new quote for the rest.' I am not very good at arguing. Or exploding. Well, only with my family. And ocassionally, press officers. And drivers who don't appreciate how special my moves are. When he told me this, I remained silent, then left the house for several hours. I have returned to a post-it note on my laptop which reads: 'Didn't mean to p**s you off. I made a miscalculation, am working at cost, give me a ring if you want to talk.' I am not going to ring him. I do not want to talk. I do not want a 'new quote'. After all, what is the point of a quote? A quote is never anything more than a 'miscalulation' on a piece of A4 that you might as well let float out of your window into the big blue yonder never to be seen again. Quote? His quote should read: 'Any price I tell you - double it.'

April 21: Did the trick...

Made the Big C (the counsellor) laugh yesterday. I cracked a joke. Not really spoken to Father-to-be at all this week as his very-nice, tolerant, kind-hearted sister is due to have her baby so I've left him be. I said to the Big C: 'It seems that things have just settled for a while. Like a layer of volcanic ash.' Oh, how she laughed. I thought: 'Is this part of the counselling therapy too? Are counsellors trained to toot with glee when their punters crack bad jokes? Is it a way to boost people's confidence?' I might try another one next week. See if I can raise another chuckle.
But things have settled, it seems, into a sort of ... nothingness. No resolution. No decisive chats. No real outcome. Just an everyday existence of me, here with Bumpette (where else would she be, I suppose) getting on with work, with my house, with trying to book a hair cut (the trickiest task of all, it seems). While FTB is busy with work, and whatever else he does.. I don't know.
I've been missing him though. Suppose it's all waves and troughs. Sometimes I hate him. Sometimes I miss him.
Spoke to him last night. He's been missing me too, he says. But he also had some news. His extended family up north has got a 'black sheep' in it. Not a white one. Or a brown one. But a black one. This cousin of FTB's has never played by the rules. Always done what he wanted. He's been living with his - heaven forbid - white girlfriend for the past few years. And guess what, she's now got a bun in the oven too, baking away, but at slightly lower less-heated temperatures than mine. And they are not even married. Tsk, tsk.
FTB's uncle came round to tell FTB's father - his younger brother - the news. The uncle, apparently, is quite happy. He will have a shiny new grandchild to play with. Who couldn't be happy at that? Apparently, no one in the family is in uproar about it as this cousin was always 'the black sheep' who 'messed-up'. Charming. I've often heard about this chap, and took FTB's word for it that he was a bit of a bad egg. Now I'm just thinking, 'Crikey, Mr Black Sheep is the only one with any brains and balls in the whole family. I bet he thinks the rest of them are a right bunch of Conservatively-minded trolls'.
FTB relayed all this to me and then said something along the lines of: 'It's not fair. How come my family accept it when it's Mr Black Sheep. But they won't accept a mess-up from me, as I am Mr Responsible, Mr Older Brother, Mr Do-Things-Properly. I'm not allowed.'
Not allowed? Ok fine. A 30-something-year-old who is 'not allowed'. A man who holds down a serious job, has a house, pays a mortgage, says he is 'not allowed'. I'm not missing him anymore. Our chat did the trick nicely.

April 21: Magic Dust

What chaos this volcanic ash is causing. My dear friend is stuck in Malaga and thinking of buying a tent and walking home. A business contact is out in Turkey waiting for the Navy to rescue her. And tomorrow's long-awaited dentist appointment - booked two months ago - has just been cancelled as my dentist is stuck in Outer Mongolia or somewhere, and - judging by the date I've been given for my re-scheduled appointment - isn't planning on being back for a least half a year. I'm not sure my teeth can last that long. They are beginning to ache with rot from all the Sugar Puffs, and ice cream and KitKats I've been ramming down my throat of late. Perhaps all this ash is actually full of calcium and flouride-floss and will act as some form of neutraliser. If not, Iceland's got a lot to answer for.

April 20: Builders

Phew and relief and chaos in equal measures. The builders have arrived to shore-up my garden's back wall. The old one was cracked, and bowing, and a definite health-hazard even to me, let alone Bumpette. Or other small children who dare to venture into my garden. I don't dislike kids that much that I want to see them squashed under a load of buckling cement. I don't think. Perhaps I'll change my mind in a year.
The operation is, considering I own the tiniest tiered garden known to man, pretty major. First I had two structural engineers round. Both of whom charged me £150 for a report. Two days ago, my builder said: 'I've had a look at the reports, and I don't like either of them, so I'm going to do it my way.' It's a very good job I like my builder. And that he said: 'Don't worry. I can see that you are slightly stressed. I'll take the hit for the price of the wasted reports.' Ho hum. Yes, heard that one before.
Yesterday, there were five workmen here, carrying huge nets of reinforced steel mesh through my house. I made tea. And fed them ice-cream and my left-over chocolate Easter bunny (and chatted one of them up to put-up some blinds. He's very nice. A solider. On two weeks leave from Afghanistan. Says these are much better shovels than the ones that the Army provide). Today, they all arrived (at 7.55am I might add) to a problem. A neighbour had parked right outside my house, just where they needed all their machines and contraptions to be. Feeling rather sheepish (I think it was my job to guard the space though I'm not entirely sure how I was meant to do that. I certainly wasn't going to sleep on the road all night) I knocked on my neighbours' doors to find the owner. Whoops. No one was in. So three of them just grappled this car like a farmer a bull, and carried it (bounce by bounce) up the road. I cringed. And thought: 'I hope bouncing a car doesn't cause damage.' Then, 'Actually, I just hope whosever car it is doesn't notice it has moved 20 feet up the road.' Then, if it is damaged, I reasoned, at least they won't know why.
There is now currently a huge cement mixer outside my front door. I'm very excited. I keep taking photos and getting in the way. I wish my nephews were here. They'd be even more excited. They might even know how it works. I think - though don't quote me - that this machine cleverly mixes the cement inside. It shoots it out anyway, down an elephant-trunk slide into (sometimes) carefully positioned buckets. Five builders are currently traipsing through my house - from front door, to back door (my house is only one-room deep) heaving the sloppy cement with them. They remind me of ants. Worker ants, on a trail; no time for ice-cream today boys.

April 19: My kind of politics

Got excited today. From a distance, I spotted two chaps with bright red badges and name tags dangling around their necks. They were walking my road, banging on doors. Booted and suited. Labour, I thought. How exciting. The first political activists I have seen. Come on, come on, knock on my door. Let's see what you're made of. Let me quiz you on your national insurance rise. And your postcode lottery health reforms. And what biscuits you like.
They knocked. They weren't from Labour at all. They were from npower. Was I paying too much for my gas and electric? Well, turned out, I was. npower can do it for £30 less a month. I fed them tea, smiled, chatted (they quizzed me about which local pubs I drink in.. clearly they have just left university and think that's acceptable chat to be having with a pregnant lady). In short, they were lovely. Be warned political activists. Get a move on. Knock my door, please. Or come this General Election, I'm voting npower.

April 17: Spring

Had a wonderful day today with mum. For the past few months, she has been on and on at me to 'let her help'. What can I buy? What jobs can I do? How can I get involved? Well, right then. I let her have it today. She had it coming. She came over - all clean-clothed and smelling of tooth-paste and perfume. I said, 'Come on then, let's go to the skip. Sod your arthritis, can you please just help me haul these great big brambles and hunks of wood and discarded plant pots into the back of my car?'
We then went to Mothercare (it being close to the tip... is it just me that regularly combines the two?.. they must think me very scruffy and dirty-finger-nailed in Mothercare.. perhaps I should explain...), buying a mattress for Bumpette and some flat sheets. I said: 'Why does she need sheets? I never use sheets. Sheets are only good for getting wrapped around your ankles in the middle of the night. Can't she just have a blanket?' But no, no, no. Overruled by shop-assistant AND mother. Best not to argue, I thought. Bumpette needs sheets.
Close to my house is Bristol's self-styled 'Creative Quarter' - full of media types, and designers, and painters and sculptors, all paying extortionate rent just to be part of the scene. It's got a fantastic warehouse-esque restaurant though, serving tapas and salad, and pizza and cake and ginger ale. Every thing a girl could ask for. We ate there, gorging ourselves on the fresh leaves and Mediterranean flavours. Middle-sister and niece then joined us. We went to the lido to eat scones with clotted-cream and jam and marvel at the swimmers (they are so much more interesting in an out-door pool.. I would never watch them in an indoor pool).. then, two hours later, went back to the very same restaurant for dinner (Mum's idea.. she is a creature of habit.. is it any wonder I'm enormous?)
Enough food already? You might have thought so. But I then went to my friend's bbq in the evening. I love my friend. She is an excellent cook, born hostess, and is always up to something of interest.. (she recently re-turfed her lawn which, in my book, is pretty damned adventurous). It's quite fun being around lots of pissed people when you're sober. Half way through the night, a few of us loitering by the gas-fired bbq in a bid to keep warm, one staggering girl came over. She said, taking a step-back in astonishment at the sight of me, and nearly spilling her vodka: 'Cor, you're a bit pregnant, aren't you?!' Hmmm, well-spotted. Then she said - very loudly: 'What's it like having a "thing" in your belly?' Then, with lots of people walking past in full ear-shot: 'Do you have sex when you're pregnant?' What, me personally, or the population at large? Then: 'Can you have sex when you're pregnant?' Then: 'What's it like?' Then - my personal favourite: 'Where's your partner? Is he here?'
Honestly, I outdid any politician with my deflective, smile-and-nod-and-hope-the-mad girl-goes-away answers. When I left, my hostess friend walked me to the door. She has a boyfriend who has gone back to university. To cover the cost, he works as a 'warden' so lives on-campus and has to be there most evenings. He spent all day with her helping sort out the bbq preparation then at 6pm, disappeared to look after vomiting students. I said: 'He's never around in the evenings, is he. You must have lots of day-time sex.' She - a bit merry by this stage, said: 'Ohhhh, we do. We christened the lawn today.' I blame Spring. Seems they're all at it.

April 16: Art attack

Was planning to zoom up to London tomorrow with mum to catch the last weekend of the Van Gogh exhibition at the Royal Academy. I love Van Gogh. Always have. Love his drawings, his people, his charcoal figures, sketches of a humble life long past-by. Love him. And multi-coloured on-drugs Kandinsky too. If I had to have two dead artists to a dinner party, I think it might just be them. Ooooh, but what about Picasso.. ooohh, and.. Why did I start this again? I must confess though, I'm not terribly into the Masters (the artists or the golf, come to that). Don't know too much about them (unlike FTB who could ramble on for hours)... didn't go to private school or do a Kate Middleton pashmina-central History of Art degree. Clearly, I missed out.. I mean, look where she got with hers. I could have snagged a Royal. Still think I might have prefered the wild, wavy-mass-of-hair-under-a-turban look. The Royals are all baldies. You'd never get William in a turban.
Anyway, don't think we're going any more. My yoga teacher went on Thursday and queued for two hours. Mum's arthritis is chronic at the moment. You can hear it in each syllable as she speaks. The words come tumbling out, breathy, but with walking accompaniments of held-in pain. And I'm not a barrel of energy either. Don't think we could cope with two hours stood up. What if my nipples got cold?
So what to do instead? Perhaps a Saturday of mooching around Bristol's Park Street? Eating cake? Is this what happens when you hit seven-months pregnant, I wonder. All your grand plans and aspirations disappear like the winter snow. All you are left thinking about is cake.

April 16: life.still

I have a friend - RH - a very skilled and lovely documentary photographer (she also bakes great cakes and gets drunk far too quickly, which is always a good thing, I think. I cannot quite remember what it is like to be intoxicated but I know that I used to like it and was also very good at it.. easily on a par). RH is currently putting together an exhibition called life.still, which will be shown at Howies, on Clifton Triangle, starting May 21 (that's a shameful, shameful plug and I'm very sorry... I won't do any more).
Today, I met her in the park with a new-mum friend of hers who she offered to set me up with so we can be bum-chums when Bumpette arrives. New Mum friend seems to be my cup of tea. She laughs, doesn't seem at all neurotic about her tiny little baby and even cracked a few jokes about bodily functions. She told me how she - when pregnant and worried she would have to be induced as she was past her due day - began rubbing her nipples constantly as this apparently produces the hormone needed to kick-start the rumblings. It worked, apparently. I don't share my nipple story with her. Too soon for that. Don't want to scare her off.
Turns out though that RH actually takes portrait photographs of pregnant women. She's done about 20 of her friends, including New Mum a few months ago. I asked: 'What do you do? Pretend you're Demi Moore?' 'No,' New Mum said. 'Dawn French would be more accurate. A pregnant Dawn French doing the splits.' (I think she was joking about the last bit. I hope so anyway.) The muses, apparently, just take their kit off, usually in the last two weeks of pregnancy, and let RH do with them as she wishes (I hope they have the heating on). I say, 'I've got a big ugly bright-red brute of a scar all the way down my belly, that won't be nice in any photo'. New Mum says: 'Who cares? I was full of stretch marks.' And actually, maybe she's got a point. Big scar might detract from the cellulite, after all. And the cold nipples. Every cloud...

April 16: Ailments

Each week in yoga, I am asked how I am by the teacher. Each week, I smile and say 'fine' (well, I think just for one week I made up a bit of back-ache as I'm not sure she believed me anymore). But in all honesty, it's true. All the other women, usually, have some bodily gripe or other. A sat-upon nerve. Itchy, twitchy legs. A bad neck. A sore toe (don't think that will be down to the pregnancy though).
I've finally, however, thought of an ailment. My nipples - believe it or not - get breathtakingly freezing and so so very painful I feel like they are icicles about to fall off and shatter on the ground. It's been like this for months. I don't know why they are like this. It's not like they have grown. They don't protrude in a Madonna pinnacle-shaped bra. They are not at the top of a summit. And they certainly aren't on display. Often, when I'm out, even on mild days, I feel the 'big chill' coming on. But as soon as it starts, it's at the point of no return. I know they are going to hurt, and hurt for a good few minutes, and that the pain is going to get worse until I somehow manage to warm them up again. To date, my method of 'warming' has not been very scientific. I simply rub them. Or put my hands over my boobs. Or, if at home, engage the hair dryer with the task. Or something like that. I was walking down the 'frozen meat' aisle of Cardiff's Asda the other day, when I was struck down and had to 'delve in'. My sister said: 'For Goodness sake, will you stop that. I live in Cardiff. I might know people.'
I wonder if anyone else has the same 'ailment'. If so, why are there no contraptions to remedy it? Why has no one invented the bear-skin bra with extra insulation? I'm wondering whether to surprise my yoga teacher with this next week. Yes, I'm fine - except for my nipples. Do you think it will go down well? More importantly, do you think there will be a stretch to fix the problem? Is there a 'nipple position?'

April 14: Swimmers

In Sydney's Botanical Gardens, there is a pool. The Andrew Boy Charlton pool. The most glorious spot to wallow in lush warm water under an Australian skin-cancer sun. When I went there on holiday, a few years back, that's what I did. Wallowed. And marvelled at all the strong-armed Ozzy swimmers. One day I went and it was 'gay day' - tight speedos in myriad fluorescent colours, all throbbing for attention.
Today - in Bristol - I could have been back there. It was so glorious and hot and by some extraordinary swimming stroke of luck, there was no work to do. I went to Clifton Lido - an outdoor heated pool tucked away among the pricey town houses. The last time I was there was on New Year's Day in an 'must-enjoy life before my operation' way. I took my seven-year-old niece as a treat. Treat, did I say? It was so eye-wateringly cold she refused to get in until I told her off and said she had no choice but to suffer it as I'd paid £8 for her (evil aunty).
This time, it was fantastic. Just a few swimmers lapping up and down, eye-witnesses clinking their wine and eating their tapas around the pool, couples thinking they were in Finland and sitting round in their robes. It was certainly no 'gay day' but there was one he/she person - a definite man's body but with boobs and luminous pink lipstick which is always a give-away - doing an odd kind of backstroke, face up-turned towards the sun. Sydney, I thought. Who needs Sydney? Life is perfect, just here, just as it is.

April 12: Blog in a bog

Bollocks. How exactly do you get good at this blog stuff? Found out the other day that my one exciting comment from a mystery 'RH' was actually my friend - with the initials 'RH'. Not the sharpest of cookies, am I? I bounded (as much as a seven-month pregnant lady can bound) into her living room, said, 'Oooooohhhh, you never guess what. I had a COMMENT! On my blog! From an RH!'
And she said: 'Uhh, yeh! That was me.'
Oh, the fool, the fool.
But at least she's reading it! And likes it. Or is that what friends are for? I've politely asked, via email, two quite well-established bloggers to add me to their blog roll. But they must have confused it with a similar sounding roll as they haven't done so far. I asked the local Mumsnet organiser to add me too but she says I have to add myself which sounds a bit scary. Self-promotion? All fine as a back-hander. But I'm too British to be overt about it.
So there we go. A blog, a languishing blog. A lost, languishing blog. Blog in a bog.

On the upside, Bump is bigger. Well, in fact, at my scan this morning, his head had grown marginally. And his stomach, enormously. He now has a Chris Moyles bacon-bap paunch (with a small head).
I wiped the sticky gel off my belly, and said: 'Why's that then?'
And my consultant with her off-beat wacky sense of humour, said: 'Well, if I put on weight, it doesn't go to my head, does it? It goes to my tummy. Or we would all have very big heads.' Ha ha ha.
So at least all the cakes (I had four welsh cakes yesterday) are doing Bump good. If not my arse.
Also decided I need to start referring to Bump as a 'she' to get me ready for the fact she may just be a girl. So from now on, Bump will be Bumpette.
Had my ante-natal class on Saturday too.
Honestly, I didn't think you could find a more clueless first-time mother than me but believe me, they're out there.
One said: 'If I'm having a water birth, then I need an epidural, can I go back into the water after I've had it?'
The midwife (a fun, leisure-centre instructor type with straight shiny hair) said: 'Luv, you will be numb. That means you won't be able to walk. There's no way I'm dragging you back into a pool.'
Another piped up: 'I'm very keen to have an epidural. When do I tell the doctors I want one? Can I book it in now?'
The midwife did well with this one. She said: 'Hmm, perhaps you should wait until the onset of labour?' Which didn't seem to go down well.
Then, and this was the worst part, the gas and air was passed around for people to try it out like some weird party game.
'Here, suck on this. It will make your head spin.'
At least twenty people tried it - mostly blokes. All sucking away on the same pipe and then passing it on. Whatever happened to hospital hygiene? I was waiting for them to ask us to put our car keys in a bowl too.
As for Father-to-be, don't ask. Bleurgh. Tired of talking about it. Suppose it has become some awful millstone of a soap opera around my neck. Like some heavy-weight choker dog-collar that has chained me up. One moment, he is gung-ho to tell more family members, try and persuade his parents to his cause, make a go of it with Bumpette and I as a happy family; then it's back to the same old story, that 'Bumpette is forbidden' in his culture (presumably so is shagging women out of wedlock but that didn't stop him). God, if I hear that this child is 'forbidden' one more time...... Will he still be saying it when she is 16 and dying her hair purple? Will it be on her gravestone? Here lies Bumpette. RIP. Forbidden.

April 9: Thank God It's ....

Friday. No work. Shopping trip to Cribbs Causeway with mum in a bid to build friendly relations. All-inclusive policy with her as well. God, this is exhausting. Guess that's the thing with babies. Not really yours are they. Belong to everyone.
I don't know when it happened but baby shopping has gone from terrifying-jungle-horror-get-me-out-of-her to... oooohh..actually quite fun....
Let her treat Bump to a big warm fleecy thing for the buggy (bright red with stars on... in case it suddenly decides to turn American and change its name to Chad or Brad or Bret or something) and a blanket of the same ilk. Let her treat me to some maternity tops (why are they all so horrid? Because you obviously don't need to try and pull anymore? But that doesn't mean I want to look like a 70's serial killer). And - most importantly - lunch in John Lewis. I take back what I said about the high-tea scones at the Hilton. John Lewis' could rival any day.
Gave her the Father-to-be low down. Told about all about the big C (the counsellor). Told her I don't really know what I'm doing. That I don't know how much to include him. That I am worried I am being a fool, expecting too much from him. That he came last week to go shopping - but that he hasn't rung all week. Not once. Not even a quick five-minute call to check how I am, check how Bump is. Tell her that, despite this clear and obvious lack of support and engagement, he might want to be at the birth. Might want to take paternity leave. Tell her all this, and I'm composed. No tears. No gesticulations. Just a clear, calm debrief as I wolf down my gammon ciabatta. She tells me that she thinks the Big C is being overly optimistic. Then she asks: 'Are you just using Bump to keep him in your life?'
God, what a sad, sad straight-on-the-button question. I can't keep the composure up anymore. Is that it? Is that what I'm doing? Do I actually not really care at all about his and Bump's relationship? Do I just want to keep him? Keep him for me? Keep him forever?
And the answer's too sad and awful to. Because yes, I suppose I do. I can't really stomach the thought of a future on my own with Bump. I can't abide the thought of going on holiday on my own with Bump, of going to Scotland in October to my friend's wedding on my own. I've always been ok at being single in the past. I can do it. I'm not always a chain-reaction girl who has to have a new bloke the week after one buggers off. Or is kicked into touch. But, I don't know, perhaps it's because I'm getting older. Or the Bump factor. Or because every aspect of life seems so uncertain at the moment. I just desperately can't stomach the idea of complete start-from-scratch singledom. Not so much during the day in, day out. Days get filled up. I have friends, work, people to see. It's just the bigger stuff. The holidays. The weekend's away. The Friday nights. The engagements.
If I let FTB out of my life, let him just drift away, it's not just Bump who loses him, is it? It's me too. And then I'll have no choice but to face the big bold ugly truth that I really am back on the shelf. And the top one at that. The one labelled, 'Ohhh, bit complicated this one; best steer clear'.
The thought of actually dating again. Dating someone new. Someone completely removed from this equation is just too incomprehensible. What would I tell him? Where would I start? How would I explain all this to a complete stranger, who had never even met FTB? God alone knows. Perhaps I could refer him to my blog. Hmm, maybe not.

So anyway, Friday night in alone. I'm cleaning, lost in my thoughts, sorting stuff. Making piles on Bump's newly painted shelves. Tiny baby clothes. New baby clothes. Three to six month clothes. Wet wipes. Bibs. Patriotic American blanket-amour. Scary Donnie Darko rabbit.
Tomorrow, I have an ante-natal class (I booked it after all.... thought I better had). It's back over in Wales. FTB is coming. Arriving at mine some time later tonight.
Not sure I can face him. Think I'll sneak off to bed early to cry and fall asleep under my duvet. I'll leave the key under the recycling bin outside. He can let himself in, make himself at home. He knows where the kettle is.

April 8: Things to be happy about

Hooray. The whiffy painter has gone. Think she must have thought the candles and incense sticks and wide-open windows were for the paint fumes as she never did say anything. Didn't think that one through, did I. I should have just come clean and said - 'No luv, wot it is, see, is it's you. You stink, innit. Fags make you stink, innit.'

Double hooray. Spring is here, at last! Scrap that. Summer is here. A Mediterranean glorious heat-wave has arrived. Outside my little house, it is blazing. It is so so hot, I could literally strip down to my underpants, flash my (sagging boobs), big snake-like scar and bulging bump and lie on the pavement for all to see. I'm aware this might mean I'm arrested. Or quarantined. Or something.
The way my house is positioned, I get sun in the morning out the back, then it swings round to hit the front of the house in the afternoon, where I have no garden. I think this must be why neighbours in the olden-days were friends. They were all out catching rays on their doorsteps.
I'm so relieved the sun is here. Winter this year has been just horrendous. It has lasted longer than I can possibly remember. Longer than purgatory. Longer than pregnancy. Last night, I went for a (very gentle!.. don't call the police on me... or worse, my mother) bike ride, through glorious fresh-shoot grass, past bobbing daffs, past budding blue-bells. (I'm so horrendously slow, a 90-year-old could probably walk quicker but it means I have time to take it all in). I want to go again today, maximise life before Bump arrives. I'm already looking at the clock. Work is quite quiet at the moment, all election-centric. Not much call for me to write 400 words on why we all love JLS. I suppose I can always keep my phone on... I'm sure I'll hear it while Bump and I are whizzing through the trees....

April 8: Proof

The Daily Mail has run an article today about a woman hypnotised in birth. She was terrified of needles / gas and air etc, so booked a Paul McKenna type. Middle of a 'horrendous' contraction, he arrived. And it worked! Four hours dreaming about her wedding, her 'happy moment', and squeezing her thumb and middle finger together and - pop - out wiggled her little boy. Perhaps I should just do that instead. Sod the course learning how to hypnotise / relax myself. I should just spend the money on someone to do it for me.

April 7: Paint Fumes

I've got a painter round. She is perfectly nice. Local Bristol lass. Climbs ladders. Leans over steep stairs. Dangles from light-shades to reach the tricky bits. Two problems. She charges per day. But leaves at 3.30pm. In whose eyes exactly is that a day's work? The other problem. She stinks. Fags. A lingering but intense smell of cigarettes. She doesn't smoke when she's here. I've not seen her anyway. But she walks in reeking of the things. When I take a swig of my tea, and bite into my toast, I breath in her fumes. It's got so bad, I'm lighting vanilla-flavoured candles as if in a shrine. Perhaps I'll give her one as a present when she leaves. Say - as she does - 'ere luv, 'av a candle. U stink, in it. Alright luv.

April 6: Found

Found the culprit of the slime. I went looking. I had told my big sister about it, and she'd said: 'That won't be a cute little snail, little sister. That will be a big slug. A great big night-feeding slug. And it will be yellow. And it will have big horrid tenticles and it won't leave unless you do something about it.'
I found it. It wasn't that big. But it was a slug. On my carpet. Yes, that's right, slug-face. My carpet. I've removed it from my house. Hopefully, it will be happier leaving its slime in my garden. Or better still, in slug heaven.

April 5: Happy Easter

Family lunch at sisters in Bath. My mum has heard that Father-to-be came to dinner the other night. I hadn't deliberately kept it from her. As always, I just hadn't seen her. When we are alone, I apologise that I hadn't told her. Immediately, there are tears in her eyes, in her voice. 'I just feel so excluded. You don't tell me anything. I have no idea what's going on.'
Get a sense too that the middle sister is off with me. There's no doubt what she thinks of FTB. She hates him - though she's never met him. Thinks he is awful. Not just for how he has treated me. But largely for how awful he has been about Bump. And still is being. I think she thinks my policy of inclusion - which I would never have come to of my own volition, without Big C's advice - is bonkers and something which he doesn't deserve.
It's a lovely day. I play football with my big bouncy nephews in the garden until the dog arrives, and swiftly pops the ball with his sharp teeth. But I can't avoid the vibes. It's so upsetting. A mum and a sister who disapprove, or judge, or are suddenly wary. Suppose it was easier when we were all in hate-FTB mode. Safety in numbers. An alliance. Something to unite against. Be a force to be reckoned with. It's just awful to feel that they think badly of me; that I'm handling things wrong, that I'm making a mess of it, that I am somehow deliberately excluding them. It's so bad I really just want to leave our family gathering and come home on my own. But I don't.
After lunch, we take a walk along the Bradford Avon canal. It's delightful, full of parked barges with fires going, people out on the bank painting shelves, tinkering. Countless bikes wheel past, many with trailers on the back. One has a too-old-to-walk Alsatian in. One has hunks of wood. I think, 'When Bump is a baby, before he can sit up and have his own bike seat, can I just get a trailer with good suspension, fill it full of blankets, get a rain cover, lie him in it and cycle him around - obviously far away from cars?' I think if I do this, I will be locked up for cruelty. But perhaps, just one day, I'll go to a quiet park and try it. I'm sure it would be a success.

April 3: Shopping and Spells

Father-to-be comes over. This is his idea. He has offered his services for shopping, which is a good step forward. Yes, come over I say. We can go and buy things for Bump and tick some jobs off. There's traffic on the M4. An Easter smash-up. He's late, arrives at 4pm.
Mothercare is - compared the one previous terrible time I dragged him there - decidedly more successful. He had a certain level of input. Tells me that red is a crap colour for a buggy and that I should buy a black one. I bought the red one. But I let him choose the colour of the car seat (he chose red that time). Let him buy them all, slapping them on Visa. And a base for the car seat so I don't have to bother with faff-tastic seat-belts.
My big sister is having dinner at her house in Bath. Dad is there, with his 'American daughter' (he dated a yank for a while, and grew close to her kids, who are now in their thirties too). So I decide to take FTB. This isn't a deliberate plan. Mainly, I would quite like to go to the dinner to see dad, who I've not seen for ages. And, I suppose part of me wants to introduce FTB to my sister and her husband - both of whom have never met him. Policy of inclusion, isn't that what the Big C called it?
My sister deserves a medal for niceness. She came to the door, said hello, gave FTB a big kiss, told him to come in, took his coat, poured him a glass of wine. Brother in law was uber-welcoming. The kids played with him - flicking elastic bands around the room in a very health-hazard have-your-eyes-out way.
It was all fine. FTB asked questions. People answered. They asked them back. No one said: 'So, FTB. Tell me, do your family really want to murder their own grandchild or has it all been blown out of proportion.'
At one point, we got onto which child in the family is the favourite. We all had different views. FTB said: 'The eldest child (himself) is always the mother's favourite.'
Dad - by now slightly merry - laughed and said: 'Not you anymore though, FTB. Sounds like you've been relegated.'
He didn't say much to that.
Later, we talked. I feel that we're getting back into a dangerous position. When he comes over and it's just the two of us, it's almost like we could be a couple again. I remember the good bits. So does he. There is no one to intervene. No outside world. Despite the 'cultural clashes' we get along when it is just us two. It's easy. But then, my brain clicks into reality and reminds me that this 'stolen time' is a fantasy land. A snatched moment. Soon, the whistle will blow and my time will be up.
He asks me what I want. I say that if perhaps we could try to make a go of it again, then we should. If not, then I want all the support I can get, for me and for Bump.
I say to him: 'Bump and I are going to Spain in August. I could invite you. We're going to Scotland for a week in October. I could invite you. Shall I invite you?'
But he says no.
He says he wants to be with me, with Bump, but the decision is out of his hands. He can't inflict the 'shame and stigma' upon his family. They have to be willing to take it, which they are not.
Such is the extent of the sister's particular venom, she has put her lawyer brain into action. When FTB tells me this, I'm shit-scared, thinking she wants to steal the baby or something. But no. Silly me. Quite the opposite. The family have quite a few businesses, properties and the such like to bring in money. Most of them are in FTB's name, being the eldest son. She is busy taking his name off all the papers so, presumably, if I go for maintenance through a legal channel, I won't be able to claim for them. Or if FTB dies randomly (through an honour killing?) Bump won't be entitled to any inheritance, if inheritance works that way... I don't know.
All I can do is laugh really when he tells me this. She's terrified of me. Terrified of Bump. Terrified of this wicked, evil world FTB has got embroiled in. But it doesn't make a load of sense. If I did want to claim for all that money on top of his salary too, well, I know all about them. I know which businesses are where, largely. FTB has promised to do his 'duty' by his child. Why would he deny him money? Not that money has been discussed as of yet so we shall have to wait and see if he sticks by his word.
The mother - superstitious as many Indians are, apparently - has also recently asked FTB for my date of birth. FTB, thankfully, refused to give it her. But he says she has been cheerful the last few days so he knows she is up to something. Has she found out? Has she put a curse on me? Has she put a hex over Bump's head? Has some soothsayer told her that her little secret will be kept forever?
FTB also says he wants to be there at the birth if possible. Be here for his two weeks' paternity leave - presumably disguised as a holiday so colleagues don't find out. His boss - who knows me and knows the situation and thinks FTB is a prick as far as I can gather - has offered him a month off to try and sort things out. I say: 'Come for a month.' But he recoils at the idea.
I'm exhausted. What is his plan? To be involved to a degree? To pick and choose the bits he wants? To watch his child be born, feel he's involved and supportive, feel he's done his bit, then bugger off back to India land? I don't know what to think. I'm momentarily lifted by his presence, by having him here, by having a hug, by talking to him, by having some sort of relationship back. Then I'm slammed back down to earth as he walks out of my door, starts up his car and heads north to the family. Just so upsetting. I'm upset to the core of my being. I couldn't be any more upset if I'd been physically assaulted. Never liked rollercoasters.

April 2: Skintville

I'm so broke at the moment. This week, I've had carpenters in for two days to put up shelves in Bump's room, and in the lounge and under-stairs cupboard. I've also booked a painter to do my stairs and landing, which I can't do. Even with the best will in the world, there's no way I'm going up a ladder. Then, for the past two months, there's been £50 a week for the counsellor who has, to be fair, saved my life, if I can dare to be so dramatic (I blame the Indians for that particular outgoing). Then there's hypno-birthing. Yes, that one's definitely a luxury but, on the other hand, I may only be pregnant once so sod it. I've not had tremendous support, have I, so anything I can get is a god-send. Each day, I walk to Tesco Metro up the hill (I'm getting slower), buy my newspapers and random fruit and veg, then stop off at the cash point. £100 one day. £300 the next. £200 the next. It's got so bad that my bank's fraud department rang me today to ask me if it was really me spending all the money or if it was some trickster in Azerbaijan. I should have lied and blamed the trickster but I didn't think fast enough. I felt very guilty. I started explaining. New house. Shelves. Paint. Building work. I don't think the man on the end of the phone cared. You want to be skint, you go for it, love. No skin off my nose.

April 1: The X Factor

The X is back. He emailed to say that cutting me out of his life has made him miserable and not really done him any favours. Did I want to meet up? Yes, yes, yes. God, I've missed him. Things may be awkward and hard and messy but that's better than nothing. I jump at the chance.
I pick him up from his house, walking into his breezy aga-warmed kitchen the way I always did. He has the most fantastic cat that technically belongs to the old owners of his property. When they left and he moved in, a year or so ago, it just refused to go with them. It simply made itself at home on the new sofas, as if to say, 'you want to evict me, you just try it'. It's got more resilience than a family of Romanian squatters. Each time the old owners came to collect it, it just sneaked out of their new house, a few miles away, and came back. Mind you, the owners were a bit bloody weird. The kid had scrawled graffiti on his bedroom wall in black marker pen. (I know one thing for certain - Bump is never doing that.)
The cat is big, and completely black with startling yellow / green eyes and looks a bit like a panther. If I was a cat, I wouldn't mess. It's good to see it, as mad as that sounds. I don't think it has missed me. But I've missed it.
Dinner is good - strange and quite hard but good. I guess - not being a couple - it's about forging new ground, new conversation, new delicate footholds where once there was a great fortified bridge. I don't ask him about his love-life, which he will no doubt have to some degree or other despite missing me. We skirt over FTB. Despite all this, I cry and cry and cry over my fish and chips. It's all too hard. Men. Life. Emotions. This situation. To use a cliche, I would probably describe myself as an emotional wreck. I suppose I'm too tired and weary of it all to think up anything more imaginative.

March 30: Mother Darko

Doom and gloom again today. I spoke to Father-to-be last night. This is bearing in mind I'd spent all morning at my hypno-birthing course, ON MY OWN (bar Bump but he wasn't very good company). And my evening at ante-natal yoga with lots of yummy mummies full of the aches and pains of pregnancy. I was in baby-mode. Unfortunately, FTB wasn't. But then, I suppose, what can I expect? He's not been around, has he? He's been in work. And probably the pub. And very definitely a different city.
Somehow, in our half-stilted, try-to-be-nice-to-each-other-and-not-talk-about-the-Indians chat, we get onto the subject of beer. At the mention of it, I am suddenly gasping for a pint. I love Ales. I love beer. Not fizzy horrid lager but the real stuff. At the moment though, I don't have beer in my cupboards. I don't have any booze in the house at all (bar the bottles of lethal liqueur I stole from my mum's house but they are still under lock and key in a box somewhere).
I've not stopped drinking entirely (can women really manage that?) but all I ever have is a few sips of wine while out at a restaurant, or a half-pint which I will largely leave.... (Ok, ok. I confess. One night - at my mother's party - I did gobble rather too much vodka jelly that didn't taste of vodka at all and was so so very very good... there we go, give me some hail mary's please).
Anyway, I stupidly tell him I'd love a beer right now. He replies: 'How much can pregnant women drink? They're not allowed to drink at all, are they?'
And, there we go, I'm immediately in a black-hole. Why? Defensive? Thinking he's judging me. Being a guilty-mother already. But I've done nothing wrong. I'm not gleefully drinking the bar dry and smoking rollies. I just, momentarily, wanted something other than water or apple juice on my palate. What's wrong with that? I wasn't actually going to go out and buy one. No doubt his pregnant sister has drunk nothing but detoxifying carrot and fuchsia tea for the past nine months.
But I think the real problem is the question (plus my tiredness). How much can a pregnant woman drink? Well, that - for any FTB - would have been fine to ask - in month one of pregnancy. What month am I again? Oh yes, seven. Seven months pregnant with his child and he asks, 'how much can you drink?'
This is - as I've said - bearing in mind that I'd spent virtually the whole day investing in me and Bump, the pregnancy, the birth, the scary beyond.
I just thought: 'You are clueless. You don't know anything that's going on. You are living in cloud-cuckoo land. And you are fundamentally extremely un-supportive.'
I told him all this, in a rather blunt fashion, then I got off the phone, cried like a baby, then feel asleep, red-eyed, headachy and full of snot.
Told the Big C (the counsellor) today. Told her I always (well, so very very often) feel let-down by FTB. Even before I got pregnant, I often felt it. He has so many other things pulling him away, pulling him in opposing directions. I think I have always wanted more, and never quite got it.
The Big C told me that, moving towards the end of pregnancy, women want more and more support. Even feisty independent ones like me. She said it was very natural for me to expect more from FTB and that it was understandable that I felt let-down. She put the phone-call misery down to a 'blip'.
I put her positive analysis of our relationship down to her being 'very optimistic'.

March 29: Hypno-mother

Hypno-birthing began. It was full-on. No Paul McKenna. But a lot of info. First, I learnt about the female body, how it's supposed to work in labour, the different sorts of muscles involved in contractions - or surges, as hypno-birthers prefer to call them. There are the long ones that push the baby down, and the circular ones that largely go 'help, that hurts, I know I'm meant to open up but there's no way on earth I'm doing it; I'm going to get tighter and tighter'. That's what happens when a woman becomes fearful. The very things that are meant to relax, don't; in fact, they do the opposite.
In labour, I was told, there are heaps of things that can make you perhaps not want to relax. Really? I didn't know.
These can be midwives trying to hurry you along. If you are too slow at labouring, they often give you some drug or other which makes the 'surges' stronger. The downside to this is that they hurt more, so women often want an epidural, which again can slow things down as a woman can't feel to push, and then all sorts of things can happen.
The aim of the hypno-birthing is not to promise to avoid pain. But to make the woman as relaxed as possible through practicing techniques and trying to get rid of the fear before the birth commences. You are meant to 'trust your body that it knows what to do' - and let it get on with it.
I watched two videos of hypno-birthing. God, I must say, it looked pretty bloody fantastic. I wouldn't have too many complaints if I managed to pull it off like that. The women were calm, relaxed, not shouting or screaming, getting on with it. The only gross bit was the actual birth. Blood, guts, gunge, a baby's head appearing out of a vagina and wriggling around like an alien. Do they have to wriggle when they come out?
I think I'm still new to it all. I was a bit overwhelmed by the intricacies and intimacy of birth. Perhaps more videos are in order.

March 26: The fear

I am making friends with the lady across the road. She has spotted my bump. She is Spanish and very nice (she has already offered-up her boyfriend to drive me to Wales if I'm stuck for a mid-labour chauffeur which I greatly appreciate, especially as he's never met me). She also has an extremely cute two-year old with curly blond hair, big blue eyes and a penchant for smily silence (bi-lingual children can sometimes be slow at talking apparently). The other day, we stood chatting in the middle of our very quiet, dead-end road. At one point, her buggy flipped over in the wind, hurtling blue-eyes backwards. Unharmed, she let him free to run around. Two minutes later, he disappeared under a neighbour's car as if he were a mechanic looking for rusty bodywork. I literally had to heave him out by his ankles. I do not think we will be very good together. While we stand around chatting, our children will be rolling spliffs and hot-wiring passing motorbikes.
Normally, I don't like other people's children. For him, I make an exception as he is so very lovely. Or I did until today.
Spanish mother spotted me working from home and brought him round. He was ill, a temperature of 38, full of snot; the nursery had refused to take him (can they do that?) I tried to be kind, to think, 'children do get ill and full of snot, it is not a big thing, Bump will no doubt get ill and full of snot and be repulsive at some point too.' Blue-eyes half eats a biscuit, wipes his green, slimy, sticky hands on my laptop, wipes them on my sofa, sneezes, dribbles on the floor. Spanish mother cleans up after her ill little boy, follows him around, removes the worst of the muck but I am still mildly revolted. I think I have a disorder - snot and stickiness OCD. After they leave, I want to bleach my house. I open the windows to let out the 'ill-child smell'. I wet-wipe my laptop, scrub my table, wipe my floor and sofa. I think: 'What am I going to do? I will soon have to spend time with other children, be them full of snot or not.' Do you think I can never invite them to my house? Ever? Can I always just meet people in the park? I think about installing a disinfectant spray, like in aeroplanes. Or body suits like forensic experts wear so no bodily fluids can escape. Or better still, one of those foot and mouth troughs for when they come through the door. Here little Johnny, come to aunty half-baked, you like being scoured with Domestos until your eyes bleed, don't you?

March 25: Craft projects

Class two of learning how to knit. I'm excited. And do you know what, I actually think I've nailed it. UBRO. Up, behind, round, off. Up, behind, round, off. Who said knitting was hard? It only gets tricky when for some inexplicable reason, a stitch doesn't come out right, or you accidentally make a big hole, or a row decides to drunkenly and rudely cascade off the end of the needle, or something disastrous like that. But all you need is a friend to pass it to. A friend who says, 'Give it here you numpty, what have you done again.' Friends are great. Friends can fix things. And off you go again.
This week was more relaxed. There were no snakes in tanks looking at me and my tasty bump of a baby. But I did find out that at least one other member of the gang also has snakes (again, in tanks in her living room) and one has - wait for it - a tarantula. What is it about knitters?
But I also discover that this isn't just a knitting club. There is one girl, my school friend's flatmate who is very beautiful and talented and lovely, but currently keeps telling gruesome stories about lambing season (her mother has a farm in Devon; last week a crow pecked the innards out of a lamb's backside. Poor lamb. As they say.) She is making jewellery; big silver chunky soldiered-things that will no doubt look great when finished. I think one of the women was crocheting too, but I'm not sure what that is. But there was one woman who didn't do anything... though she had an excuse. She brought her tiny three-week old, elfin baby with her to show her off for the first time. We took it in turns holding her (I lie.. I didn't want to but the rest did), passing her around, cooing at her too-big-for-her-body hands and cute outfit. We can't resist. There's no competition. She wins the vote by miles - undoubtedly the best-craft prject anyone in the group has so far produced.

***

I seem to have a new lodger in my house. It is not a cat, thank-god. I think it must be a snail (or, yuck, a slug, so I'm just thinking it's a snail). Two mornings ago, I came downstairs, stood in my kitchen thinking 'fooooooooood,' glanced at the nearby rug that is stopping my make-shift chairs scrape the new floor and thought, 'hmmm'. There was a clear and definite slime trail, circling in on itself then squiggling off the side of the rug. I hoovered it off, inspected for slimy little creatures to no avail. But the next day, there it was again, this time its glistening markings on the rug and the doormat, a few feet away. I'm not sure what to think of my intruder. I'm not sure where it lives. In my one wilting plant high-up on a shelf? In my kettle? Nor what it is after in my house. Crumbs? Do snails eat crumbs? Perhaps I should leave some out and see if they vanish in a puff of smoke - or trail of slime. So long as it stays downstairs, I think it will be ok. I won't get the traps out just yet. But any sign of the slime coming upstairs to suck me and Bump in the middle of the night, then it's had it.

March 24: Don't panic

I am slowly beginning to panic about the logistics of my up-coming birth (not my birth, obviously.. Bump's birth..) This is because I live in Bristol but I'm still medically registered over the bridge in Wales. I had my operation there, and recuperated back at the old family home, and went for post-operative check-ups there (and my small baby scans). So now, I'm just in their system; the midwives know me, the consultants know me; the receptionists know me; even the man who carries out surveys each week on whether women are taking their Folic Acid or not knows me (I steal his pens). Last time I met my consultant, I came clean and told her I've pegged it to England and asked if I should switch my care here for Bump's arrival, but she thinks it's best I stay in Cardiff.
Easy to say. But how the hell am I supposed to get there when Bump wants to arrive?
'Can I drive myself,' I asked.
The consultant looked at me in one of those ways that makes you feel very small, and said: 'Contractions can last for fifty seconds. You can't drive.'
I think: 'I'd get there quick though, wouldn't I, with my foot to my floor.'
My school friend offered to be on call - then remembered she'd be in Mexico on holiday at the time.
My mum has offered to stay with me for the two weeks surrounding the due date so she can drive me over. But is an in-labour woman really geared up for a car drive? Will I leak? I've got no bloody idea.
Then there's the worry about when to get over there. As soon as Labour starts? But where do I loiter if the hospital says I'm not ready to come in. Mum's house is no-more. My sister has sold her house so she'll be out of it in a month. But as yet she hasn't found a new one so I guess she and her daughter will be staying at dad's, along with all their boxes.
Can I go there and just loll about at his house amongst the chaos? Somehow, it sounds grim.
I've also got to stay 'consultant-led care' which is also worrying as I'm not sure why.
'You've had major surgery in the last few months, that's why,' they say.
But what do they think is going to happen? Am I going to rupture? Is my scar going to split open? Am I going to burst? Are they going to want to strap me to a bed and monitor me? They better bloody not.
Then there's the problem of after-care. Midwives like to visit, don't they, to check mother hasn't murdered their newborn. Or sat on it. Or eaten it. I'm not hanging around dad's house for weeks on end. So they'll have a long way to travel to find me.
Who are these people who have easy lives all in one place?

***

At yoga earlier on this week, one of the women mentioned Hypno-birthing. I'm always slightly skeptical of such things. I imagine Paul McKenna saying, in a very relaxed slow voice, 'And now push' while you scream your lungs out in agony.
I think I might just be able to wangle writing a feature about it and so get the course for free, so I ring the woman.
She is very nice, and frankly, just too damn good at quietly and efficitiently rail-roading you into doing it. Before I know it, I've told her my whole life-story and signed up. It is geared towards couples, or a woman and her birthing partner, but I've convinced her to just let me come on my own (with Bump of course). If it works, and stops you tearing in two, or getting butchered or having some horrendous problem (one of the women in yoga had a prolapse in her last birth which left her having to - and I quote - 'carry around a Tesco carrier bag of loose vagina for two months') - I'm all for it.

I'm also beiginning to panic about names. They are very tricky when you are trying to decide on your own. I know Father-to-be won't like anything I pick. I am on letter A of my baby-naming book. So far, Bump is being called Albie (which my sister kindly said was the name of a horse she once rode that kicked her off. 'It was a nice horse though,' she quickly added).
I add up the days. I've got about two months left. How many letters are there in the alphabet? 26? I can't remember. So, what's that? A letter every two days, should Bump not arrive early? Goodness, I better get reading.

March 23: Blogtastic

Ohhh, I'm so very excited about my blog. I started this up just a few weeks ago, back-dating my diary accounts I had begun keeping while on my festering, rank-smelling death bed in January. I like to write. I write for a living, though sometimes, when I read my master-pieces after my boss has 'tweaked them' out of all recognition, I do wonder why I have not yet been fired.
My counsellor (the Big C) clocked that I was a 'creative type' (do I really dress that badly?) and that writing my thoughts down might help. She more than likely meant on a scrap of paper, to be discarded, and lost, then one day found months later, marvelled at in quiet disbelief (did I really think that?) then thrown away. Or better yet (as I am a creative type) tossed casually onto the log-burner on a night-in drinking Magners and listening to Joni Mitchell.
I thought I'd do a blog instead and treat myself to a bit of technological-advancement. I've never done one before but I loved reading Wife In the North's, so what the hell.
Today, I logged on, slightly unenthusiastic already I must admit, as blogging is quite all-consuming. And (as I said) I do write for a living so dong this actually entails yet more hours sat alone at my kitchen table being stared at by a cat.
This time, though, I noticed I had a comment. One lovely, exciting comment from somebody called RH.
Goodness, I thought. Are people actually reading this? Can people actually be bothered to skim through my endless moans and gripes. Surely, no one would have the patience. It's quite terrifying to think that this is actually out there. If Father-to-be found out, he would more than likely be very angry. Or would he cry? He would probably cry and think me very, very cruel (he may well be right, this has crossed my mind, I am just trying to block it out). He might start his own blog and fill readers in all the gaps I've missed out and make me look horrendous. 'Do you know what she did this week?' Or - perhaps, but I might be being naive, no? - it might shame him and his family into slightly better behaviour. They might worry I was doing a bad PR job on the Sikh community. 'Us, say such horrible things about a tiny little baby not yet born into this world? Us, reject our very own grandchild and deny its existence? Us, disown our son for bringing such shame into the family? Us, be so horrid about a woman he once cared for? Never.'
Anyway, I've decided it's not all about him. I've not re-read and counted-through my postings, but I reckon less than five per cent of them are dedicated to our failed relationship and the medieval attitudes of the Indians. The rest are all just my ordinary goings-on, life being pregnant, life in a new home, life knitting with snakes etc., with a bit of spin to make them sound more exciting, of course. So there we go, your honour. I have my defense. The blog is staying (just like Bump! Ha!)

In my excitement, after realising that I must have at least one reader, I thought I would try to link to other blogs. I searched for 'Bristol blogs' and found two to start with. One is written by a man who likes to run marathons. There is a big photo at the top of his home-page of bleeding nipples. Yes, that's right, blood through a t-shirt, how attractive. I do not bother reading it. The other is by a woman who clearly likes cushions. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Everyone likes a good cushion from time to time. But I think she's a bit obsessed. Her whole blog is about the exciting padded creations so I don't bother reading that one either. I think: 'Hmm, if this is my local competition then perhaps my drivel isn't so bad, after all.'

March 22: George Cross

Yoga is a success. I not only smiled and managed not to cry. I also spoke. I said 'hello' to at least two women. On the way out, I hear them swapping phone numbers to meet for a coffee. I was very brave. And said: 'Ohhh, I don't know any mums at all. Please can I come too?'

March 21: Moves afoot

Father-to-be comes over for a scan. We avoid all discussion of his family life until I hear him on his phone later that afternoon. He is talking to someone about selling his flat and leaving London.
Upon quizzing, he says: 'I cannot live in London while keeping Bump a secret. I cannot meet with my friends anymore while they don't know about this. I need to leave, quit my job, sell my flat, start again, do a Maxine Carr and create a new identity. I've got to turn my back on the life I've been living.'
His mother has reportedly been in hospital with the stress of it all. The sister has nearly had her baby early. I sit at my kitchen table, nursing a cup of tea, thinking: 'How did it come to all this?'

March 21: Dirty weekend

Despite her own troubles, my old school friend is looking after me. A while back, she invited me for a weekend away in Narbeth, a near-seaside town in Pembrokeshire. Her friends have a cottage in the town centre which we can use, she said. There is a good deli. There are beaches. It can fit four of us (her two other flat-mates and a dog). I'm sold.
In the day, Narbeth is a delight. There are galleries. One sold Rolf Harris' prints (can you believe he will be 80 this year?). One sold terrible out-of-focus photographs of fly-tipping. A pile of wasted tyres to hang on your wall anyone? Go on, it's only £200. Another sold Art made of tampons (clean ones) which were actually quite lovely - from a distance.
We found a knitting shop. I now know what to aspire to. Knitted products can be beautiful. You just need good organic, home-dyed wool and - well - a bit of talent. I especially marvelled an old-fashioned pale-brown blanket, made in one go with many different stitches. I thought: 'I will never be able to do that'.
I also learnt that there is a stitch called 'turkish fagotting'.
I'm not sure what this is but my mind is conjuring up images of turkeys, Turks and faggots. I'm not sure how they all go together.
Our Saturday night out in Narbeth, though, did not get off to a good start.
This is what happened.

8.45pm and hungry (we did not think this unduly late).
We walk to a local restaurant that is quite buzzing but clearly has free tables.
We enter:
Polite: 'Do you have room for four?
Not so polite: 'No.'
'Oh, are you sure. There are very obviously free tables?'
She goes to check - then says, 'Yes, of course, come in,'
Better.
We are seated. Ten minutes later, we try to order.
'Oh, did no one tell you? You can't have anything off the main menu. You can only have a steak off the volcanic grill (no good for us as one is a vegetarian). The chef's got to leave at 9pm you see. He won't stay any later. It's a Saturday night and he wants to leave.'
We find another restaurant.
One of our team's food is cold. The other has the tiniest piece of chicken known to man. Half way through - we are the only ones in there - they turn the music off. We try to pay but the waitress is chatting to her mate who has come through the door.

We go to a pub. This is quite exciting. I have not been to a pub for a long long time. I like pubs and I have missed them.
With my pea-sized bladder, I go straight to the loo while the others order their pints - and my bitter lemon.
No bitter lemon, it seems.
Ginger beer?
Nope.
I ask the barman: 'What non-alcoholic drinks do you have?'
He says: 'Coke, lemonade, orange juice or all three mixed together if you want. This is a boozer, in it. We sell boooooozzzzzzze.'
I don't think any of us have ever felt so unwelcome in our lives. We hide in a booth with our coats on, ready to scarper.
A man comes in, drunk, old before his time, bedraggled.
'Oi, girls. Can any of you play the piano. I'll play you a tune.'
Unsteady on his feet, he collapses on the piano stool, flips open the lid of the battered old beast, starts slowly going up a wonky scale with a few duff notes...
Then the evening gets a whole load better.
He is called Reg and he is absolutely fantastic. Steaming drunk (he'd been at the races all day and lost £150). But boy could he play.
Every tune you wanted. Old ones. New ones. Well, not Michael Jackson. Or Tom Jones.
'Bloody Tom Jones, I'm not playin that rubbish.'
Soon, all the girls were up. Singing. Dancing. A local joins in. So drunk, her belt is hanging off her trousers and she later ends up falling asleep on the bar stool.
(She's also - in true Gavin and Stacey style - called Nessa).
Then the local boys come out to play.
Tarmac Dan (who is called Dan and Tarmacs roads for a living); Harry Potter Shane (he has a scar on his forehead) and some others.
I think they spot four out-of-town birds and think their luck is in.
Got to be said, though, I don't think their eye-sight's much cop.
They'd clearly added me into the 'available' equation.
Tarmac Dan was after me (I'm not bragging, this is the truth.)
There was no doubt. Seven months pregnant. And he didn't even notice as he threw his arm around my shoulders and tried to buy me shots and make me dance.
Either that, or he didn't care.
In his defence, he was very drunk. 'I'm steamin,' he yelled.
At one point, him talking about being a Tarmacer yet again, my friend said:'Oi Dan, stop talking shop will you.'
To which he replied: 'I'm not talking shop. I'm talking work. I don't work in a shop. I Tarmac.'
Bless.
By the end, even I was dancing by the piano. Reg was stupendous.
Not only could he play for Britain, he also had an iPhone (which clearly contained lots of porn as he wouldn't let us look at the pictures), and a Facebook page.
The best bit?
When we drove back to Cardiff the next day, to return the cottage keys to the owners, we told them about Reg.
The mum, who grew up in West Wales, said: 'Reg Mathias. I know him. My father was his headmaster. Here, I'll show you pictures of him when he was eight.'
I love Wales.

March 19: I am an explorer

I am slowly exploring Bristol and my local area more. I now know where a local pizza cafe is, a local Tapas restaurant, a good pub that serves Real Ale, where to buy fresh fruit and veg and get new tyres for my car (two different places). I also know which hills are too steep to walk up, at least in my current state, which is helpful.
Today, I walked up into my park. It is a really lovely park. A few chavs that shout 'Come ere ya bastard,' after their run-away pit-bull. But I don't mind that. I'm sure I've called my dog worse at times, though probably not in such a public space.
It's also got a basketball court that actually gets used. (I want to play with Bump when he's old enough. Or even when he's not. I can just bounce a ball around his Maxi-cosi car seat, shoot some hoops, and run to him for a high-five. I can tell I'm going to be an embarrassing mother).
It's also got a children's play area, a tennis club and enough of a hill that you get decent views out over the city.
From the top, you can see up to the Clifton Suspension Bridge and all of Clifton Wood and beyond. I looked out today, and thought: 'That's where my X lives. Just up there. So close. If I look hard enough, I can probably find his house.'
It is tempting to wave, to stand on my tip-toes, shout 'here I am, I'm still alive, I'm just over here. Come on over some time. I'll make you a cup of tea. I've missed you. I miss you every day.'

March 18: Cats

March 18: Cats
I seem to be attracting cats into my life. When I first moved in back in August, I had a lodger - even though the house was a building site (she paid cheap rent). She came with two until-then house cats as she had previously lived in a top-floor flat.
I said to her: 'Are they house trained?'
She said: 'Yes.'
I said: 'Please can you throw them out in the day. I don't want a litter tray in the house as I don't have a utility room.'
She said: 'No problem.'
But there was one tinsy problem; no one told the cats. They didn't want to go. They took one look at the cold billowing Bristol winds and thought: 'Sod that. Don't you know I'm a house cat. Don't you know I like doing my do-do in a nice clean warm litter tray. Won't catch me crouching in a pile of sodden leaves. I might catch a chill.'
After two weeks - still a litter tray lurking downstairs.
Fine for her - she was out of the house all day. It was Moi who had to put up looking at a steaming crusty cat turd, and wait for the wafts to reach me.
I dared to broach the subject.
She put the cat litter tray in her bedroom.
I don't know how she put up with this. It stank - especially as I made sure her door was closed to ensnare the smell.
One day I peeped in and her clothes had fallen off her wardrobe into the tray. All I can say, is she must like cat droppings more than I do.
Then - another night (sorry, you can tell I still haven't quite got this out of my system) she invited her hunk of her boyfriend around to sleep.
Ah - well then, she didn't want the steaming cat litter tray in her bedroom then, did she.
He might think her a tad odd, no? To fall asleep to the smell of bottom-ended digested Whiskers. Not really a Lavender-scented candle, is it?
So she put the litter tray out on the landing. Right by the ladder down which I climbed from my sleeping-hideaway in the loft.
I lay in bed. Thought: 'Wonderful. I am three-months pregnant. I feel awful. I am very dumped and single and dreadfully miserable.
'I really do not want to hear my flat-mate having sex with her hunky man. I can't even shut my door as I sleep in a loft. I want to cry.'
4am, I awoke to an all-too-familiar scratching noise.
One of the cats was having a crap right by my ladder, the smell wafting straight up into my loft hatch to accompany my dreams.
Well, I've never got down the ladder to so quick to bollock the little blighter and chuck it's filthy waste downstairs (very loudly).
During this time, with the house in complete upheaval from the builders, my spare room became an Armageddon.
It was full of boxes and belongings; it was my kitchen (the kettle, microwave and toaster were there); my tool-shed, my wardrobe.
One Sunday, I dared to clear it out.
After ten minutes: 'Hmm, that smells a bit funny. What is that slightly-acidic aroma?'
There was cat piss everywhere. On bags full of clothes, on books, on towels, on my brother-in-law's pirate outfit which I had borrowed to go to a fancy-dress party.
And in one corner - a nice, fossilised cat turd.
To be fair, if I was a cat I too might have thought: 'This room is in such a mess, I'm going to use it as a toilet.'
But I didn't think that at the time. I thought: 'I am spending my Sunday cleaning-up cat piss and I am really not very happy about it.'
The best bit:
When I told said-lodger, she said: 'Oh, that will have been Maggie, the black cat.'
I said: 'How do you know which cat it was?'
She said: 'Oh, she used to do it all over my house every time she got scared.'

I now seem to have a different cat in my life. It is the neighbour's. A few weeks ago, my middle sister and dad did a Good Samaritan day's work chopping down trees and overgrown bushes in my back yard. I think we beheaded its favourite perch.
It now comes into my yard and peers at me through my French windows.
I work from home, sat at my kitchen table all alone in my quiet little house. Sometimes I look up and it is just sat there, looking at me inquisitively, watching me.
I feel like a specimen at the Zoo.
I think, 'Should I let it in. It looks like a nice pussy cat. It looks like it might want to come in.'
Then I remember.

March 15: Just another Manic Monday...

Yet anther appointment to measure the fluid around Bump and to check he’s getting all the food and blood he needs. It seems the 'levels' are fine. No drought. No great flood. Which means probably all is well and that I'm just having a small baby for some other reason.
I see my consultant, who always seems relaxed and cheerful even when dishing out news about borderline tumours and worryingly small babies. This time she says: 'There is no need to be concerned. The baby is small. But we humans draw up these medical charts to tell us how a baby should be at a certain time and age. But God sometimes know better and decides that it won’t quite fit what we want.’
Hmm, I think. Isn’t that what people say when bad things happen? That God is on board? That God knows best? Oh, you’ve lost you only son in car crash. Oh, your mother’s been murdered by a raving schizophrenic let out on a weekend jolly. Is God really on board then? And is he really on board with this baby? After all the grief Bump’s caused, I hope so. I really do. I’m not sure I’m enough. If you’re listening God, there’s a seat for you down this end of the pitch, the whistle’s blown and they're off, come and cheer on my team and come quick; we need your help.

***

A cursory call from father-to-be to check that the appointment went ok. I wait for him to tell me whether he is coming to the next scan – which he has been invited to - but he rushes to get off the phone.
Leave it, I think. Then, two minutes later, ‘bugger it, I want to know’. I text him. Are you coming to the next scan? Have you thought about whether you are having contact with this child?
Seems the ‘I will definitely have contact’ line from last week has gone up in a puff of smoke (have I mentioned that I’m naive? I think I have...???).
Now, the line is: ‘I think about nothing else than whether to have contact or not and I am still not sure.
'We need to talk some more, much more openly and honestly.'
Bastard. Bastard. Bastard. Cruel, cruel, spineless coward. I hate him. I hate him from me. I hate him from Bump. I hate him from my family. I hate him from all decent people who know what’s right and make sure they put their children first despite all the obstacles. What is it that I am doing? Trying to include him, trying to incorporate him, trying to create some bond between him and Bump. Here, I say, come over, be involved. If we can’t be a happy couple, we can be happy parents, you can see Bump whenever you want, he can get to know you, he can get to know his heritage, he will love you and turn to you for guidance when his mother is making him tidy his bedroom and turn his music down and generally driving him mad. I will do what I can to make it work – provided you keep us both away from the cultural backlash.
I am a fool ten times over. I think: 'How can he not want to see this child or be committed to involvement in this child's life? How is he not 100 per cent biting-my-arm off to come to the scans?' Now, after all this time, largely down to my counsellor's (the Big C's) doing, he has access and encouragement on a plate - but he doesn’t want it. His family still come first, and they don’t want this. If FTB keeps becoming more involved, their dirty little secret has more of a chance of getting out. I weep for myself for being a fool. I weep for Bump. I weep, I weep, I weep.

March 14: Vomit

Since month three of pregnancy, I have been very lucky in having virtually no morning sickness at all. It seems God is out to get revenge. I have caught the 'gastro' bug that is sweeping the nation. First brother-in-law had it, then two weeks later, my middle sister, then big sister's eldest boy.
I've felt 'off' all day. I drove to mum's house in the countryside to wish her a Happy Mothering Sunday. I couldn't eat the beautiful M&S lunch she dished-out, nor could I walk the dog, much to his sadness. I slept in the sunshine on the drive (it's the country, even the drive is nice).
Came back, woolly hat my passenger-seat companion in case of a sudden emergency, went to sleep, then - ahh, yes....I wasn't making it up. Being sick is not nice. I don't like sick. I don't like clearing up sick. I think: 'Soon I will have to do this for someone else' as I wipe around the toilet seat with a wet cloth.

March 13: Knitting

I have an old friend from school. For the past few years, we have led parallel lives, but mine slightly in echo. We lived in Bristol, she moved to London. I followed a year later. She moved back, disilusioned with the 'wanky TV industry' that meant her driving 15 hours a day to deliver a video to some ungrateful tosser or other.
I followed her back a year later. Now we are both here and it is good. She has lots of friends, has a social network, invites me places, is kind.
I've known for a while that she goes knitting. Despite being friends, we are, in many ways, chalk and cheese. I go mountain biking. She goes knitting.
Knitting, I think - as she probably does to getting muddy on a bike. Who wants to knit? How dull is knitting? I have no desire to knit. Hear the word 'Knit' - and I think 'old people, and terrible Aran jumpers, and Easter chicks'. Knitting? Never.
This was before I became pregnant.
In the last week, I have looked around at my world, and my few-friends, and my non-existent social life, and thought: 'Fuck, if it's bad now, how bad is it going to be when Bump arrives?'
I rack my brains over things I can do with a tiny baby. I cannot go mountain biking, I know this much. Not unless I want to be jailed for causing infantile brain damage. Nor can I do any sport of an evening. Nor can I go to a pub.
'Ah,' I think, my forward creasing slightly in concern. 'But perhaps, just maybe, just perhaps I can go knitting.' I ring her up.

Knitting, it transpires, is not easy. There is something called casting on, like a fisherman should do, only it's not so much lobbing a rod into still water and hoping for a bite, but an active threading of needles and wool and trying not to pull too tight or let the little monkeys slip off the end.

It seems my needles do not like doing what my brain tells them to do. It seems my brain also has great trouble in following instructions. By the end of two hours, I have knitted two rows (and my friend did one) and this really was trying very hard. It takes a lot more effort than mountain biking.

The plan was to get into knitting, get to know this gaggle of girls and make some friends, to create something in my diary which I can take Bump to. The venue changes every week, flipping between the group's respective houses. Bump can sleep, I figure, in some upstairs bedroom while I knit.

Good plan, you might think.
Not so.
The lady who hosted this week has snakes. Not just one. But three. Big ones.
I sit on the sofa, my eye just glancing at the 'fish tank' the other side of the room.
I think, 'Ohh, that's a funny goldfish swimming out from behind that rock.'
Then: 'In fact, that's a very very long goldfish. It keeps coming.'
Then: 'Good God, it's a snake.'
There are two in the lounge tank, three-foot corn snakes of a Tipex white colour.
If that is not enough, I am told that there is also a four-foot python upstairs in the spare bedroom.
I think: 'There is no way on earth I am leaving Bump upstairs asleep while I knit among friends knowing that there is a wild hungry one-limbed monster in the house.'
Imagine the python escapes. I'm sure it would be extremely delighted to find a tiny brown baby asleep in a moses basket on top of a firm bed. What a perfect size for a one-gulp dinner.'
Perhaps mountain biking is a safer bet after all.

March 12: Fool, Fool Me

Backwards slide with FTB. I email, to say how nice it was to see him on Monday and that I was grateful to have him back in my (and Bump's) life, that I felt we had built a little bit of trust again, and that I was glad he wanted contact with Bump and that he was very very welcome, so long as he didn’t bugger off when Bump’s age five, or whenever he gets an arranged marriage.
He replies:
‘This is still not straight-forward.
‘Of course I want to be involved and come to the scans but I’m worried you will take my involvement for more than it is.
‘I’m worried you haven’t thought of the implications for you and Bump.
‘I’m still not sure whether cutting myself off is the best thing after all.’
Have I told you I’m naive?