Friday
Highlight of this week (video introduction to unborn child notwithstanding) has been the resolution of the mystery of how the cat's boyfriend has been finding his way into the house. To provide the background, Princess (the minx) found an identical-but-slightly-larger tom cat friend (let's call him Houdini) with whom she frollicked in the garden all summer. It would appear he lives in one of the gardens backing onto our little terrace and so it's been a case of young love across the backwall and compost bin. They've both had their respective bits off so no need to worry about underage sex, in fact we encouraged this shining example of cat camaraderie and their apparent loyalty to each other - neither has ever been seen even sniffing around another cat, and when our friends brought an overly enthusiastic Labrador (or Retriever - I'm not really a dog person so the finer details of the quite-similar-family-hound escapes me), she ran to the end of the garden and behind the shed (fur standing on end) whilst he gingerly moved towards the conservatory to check if all was clear of the salivating beast. We found this devotion quite endearing, not least as he looked like he was shitting bricks but none the less did what he could to defend his pussy-lover.
The devotion is reciprocal - she sits primly outside the back door waiting for him every morning from 7am (after harrassing us to get up by licking and nuzzling from 6am then finally nibbling us into being awake so we can feed her and let her outside). And waits, and waits, for it seems the boyfriend cat isn't really a morning kind of feline - we've never seen him before 10:30am and he's not that fast on his feet until early afternoon. He does, however, sit outside the back door and wait and wait and wait for her after dark when she's shut up and plonked on a cusion, fear of urban foxes eyeing her as juicy young prey playing on my mind. Yet boyfriend cat sits, his black fur invisible in the dark of the garden, tripping up the unexpectant guest who sneaks outside for a crafty fag on the damp and shaggy lawn. Not even the downpouring of autumnal rain wilts his ardour and he continues sitting through the dark wet cold until the lights go off and he realises she's not coming back again today.
Anyway, as she has now reached the grand old age of 7 months, we figured it was time for her to have her own cat flap to come and go as she pleases. There is, however, an 8pm curfew after which my mind becomes a flurry of fox-eating fear and so she is lured with a bowl of crunchy Science Plan cat food and then her freedom curtailed whilst her appetite detracts her long enough to lock the cat flap. The downside of this is that she still wakes us up unfathomly early, leaving Mr Singh in a perpetually bad morning mood as she purs and nuzzles his beard and disturbs his essential 6am-7am-snooze-button-induced-snoring.
The cat flap is fitted with a special magnetic lock so only Princess, with her cat shaped magnet dangling cutely off her neon pink collar, will open sesame and allow her into the house. Or so we thought. Despite this ingenious locking process, we kept finding Houdini in the house. First of all (and possibly most disturbing) we found them both snuggled up on our bed licking each other. Now, it's all well and good that she has a boyfriend but not in our bed! Mr Singh was quite peturbed and chased Houdini out of the room with his slipper in his hand, Punjabi expletives pouring from his mouth as he told the bhaen-chod-ing cat to get out of his ma-chod-ing house, only to have Princess stand herself between the bulging-eyed angry owner/father and the object of her affections.
Since then, we've kind of got used to finding him around and, to a greater or lesser degree, tolerate it as he seems nice enough and he makes her happy. We have, however, had to draw the line at him eating her food. We choose the vets-recommended-balanced-diet-fucking-expensive cat food Science Plan because we love our cat and bought into the marketing. We agree that a pet food brand available in the supermarket just can't be as good as the exclusively pet-store-vet-and-mail-order option of Science Plan (it just sounds so health giving I can see the fur shine at the mention of it). And all I can assume is that his owner/mum buys him cheap shit from Aldi because he's inside wolfing down her posh stuff quicker than you can say what's for dinner. What's more, he doesn't even bother to run away when we come into the room, taking every greedy little mouthful before Mr Singh's foot comes sweeping through the air towards him (note to RSPCA: this is purely an attempt to scare and the foot deliberately misses - no-one [feline or otherwise] is hurt along the way and no restraining order is required by officials in peaked caps and vans screeching to a halt outside our home).
This has been going for several weeks now, since the supposedly-secure cat flap was installed. We've watched it, we've watched him, we've tried to force it open without a magnet, we've tried to force Princess through the flap with and without her magnet, and we just couldn't work out what was going on. Until yesterday when I sat at the laptop looking into the conservatory at the just the right moment.
It turns out that she comes skipping through the catflap, looking for her top grade nosh, which she guzzles about half of then licks her furry lips. Then she returns to the cat flap where Houdini is peering through the plastic screen pitifully. She pushes the little door flap open with her nimble front paw and then holds it so he can come on through and munch the remaining portion of her lunch. So after all that he's not Houdini and it's not a mystery, she's in love and wants to share a romantic meal with her lover. The little minx.
Friday 30 October 2009
Wednesday 28 October 2009
Liquid Assets
Wednesday
Sitting in my pyjamas feeling a bit saggy around middle but decidedly chuffed about my new hormone-improved assets, I perused the online news for the day with my pot of tea. Interesting opinion piece in the Independent outlining how the Shabaab powers-that-be in parts of Somalia have a new target for their concerns over female morality. The brassiere.
Apparently, a woman has been publically whipped for the heinous crime of wearing a bra. Her bra-wearing antics have been deemed un-Islamic as it is a form of fraud and deception. 'Huh?' I hear you say. Well, apparently by squeezing our little puppies into the restrictive elastic of the brassiere, we are defrauding potential husbands by letting them think we have something more pert than is actually the case, hidden beneath the layers of heavy black fabric that is designed to 'protect' us from the stares of lecherous men unable to control their desires.
How are these women of disrepute being caught, I hear you ask. By being told to shake their boobies in the street by the (male) morality police protecting the easily offended boob-watching suitors of southern Somalia. If they are not (i) naturally pert [frankly, to have bra-pert breasts without the bra usually requires surgery, arguably more of a contravention of the trading standards act that a mere slip of lace edged elastic] or (ii) flat and low slung like the rest of us mere mortals, then its off for a spot of public flogging for bringing the good name of Somalian women into disrepute.
Now, I understand the thinking of 'modest' attire for women of the Islamic faith - or any other theological persuasion come to think of it - I don't necessarily agree with covering myself up when men get to parade around as they will, but I respect people's choices and that it reflects certain perceptions of morality. But surely even the most pious must question whether the prohibition of the brassiere (hidden beneath considerable layers of figure-denouncing sweaty fabric) is taking the idea a bit too far and perhaps opens the debate as to whether this niqab/burqa concept is actually more about controlling women than it is protecting and respecting them.
Me? I'm off to M&S to purchase a new bra - one that fits my newly rotund assets and to ensure their milky roundness is suitably attired to protect against increased hormonal aching whilst modestly accentuating the new found cleavage that many women would pay good money for - and whilst they're pert enough to show off (let's face it, post-lactating it'll be downhill....all the way to my knees).
Sitting in my pyjamas feeling a bit saggy around middle but decidedly chuffed about my new hormone-improved assets, I perused the online news for the day with my pot of tea. Interesting opinion piece in the Independent outlining how the Shabaab powers-that-be in parts of Somalia have a new target for their concerns over female morality. The brassiere.
Apparently, a woman has been publically whipped for the heinous crime of wearing a bra. Her bra-wearing antics have been deemed un-Islamic as it is a form of fraud and deception. 'Huh?' I hear you say. Well, apparently by squeezing our little puppies into the restrictive elastic of the brassiere, we are defrauding potential husbands by letting them think we have something more pert than is actually the case, hidden beneath the layers of heavy black fabric that is designed to 'protect' us from the stares of lecherous men unable to control their desires.
How are these women of disrepute being caught, I hear you ask. By being told to shake their boobies in the street by the (male) morality police protecting the easily offended boob-watching suitors of southern Somalia. If they are not (i) naturally pert [frankly, to have bra-pert breasts without the bra usually requires surgery, arguably more of a contravention of the trading standards act that a mere slip of lace edged elastic] or (ii) flat and low slung like the rest of us mere mortals, then its off for a spot of public flogging for bringing the good name of Somalian women into disrepute.
Now, I understand the thinking of 'modest' attire for women of the Islamic faith - or any other theological persuasion come to think of it - I don't necessarily agree with covering myself up when men get to parade around as they will, but I respect people's choices and that it reflects certain perceptions of morality. But surely even the most pious must question whether the prohibition of the brassiere (hidden beneath considerable layers of figure-denouncing sweaty fabric) is taking the idea a bit too far and perhaps opens the debate as to whether this niqab/burqa concept is actually more about controlling women than it is protecting and respecting them.
Me? I'm off to M&S to purchase a new bra - one that fits my newly rotund assets and to ensure their milky roundness is suitably attired to protect against increased hormonal aching whilst modestly accentuating the new found cleavage that many women would pay good money for - and whilst they're pert enough to show off (let's face it, post-lactating it'll be downhill....all the way to my knees).
Tuesday 27 October 2009
Be Still My Beating Heart
Monday
Woke up to find that we're living in a police state, a sort of Latin American banana republic (just watch the politicians slipping on banana [expenses] skins....) but with shit weather and less competent leadership. It would seem the police have been keeping secret databases on 'domestic extremists', i.e. individuals who are prone to protesting but who haven't actually done anything illegal... they might, however, have a predisposition to antagonise the state in the future, and so the police felt obliged to document these reprobates (in secret, to protect their privacy, naturally) as a potential threat to the smooth running of the country by big wigs who don't want to worry themselves with minor details such as electorate interference in things they don't fully understand. But the innocent have nothing to fear from finding their name and mugshot on a database leaked to the press by police officers who will be disciplined once they've been identified (and no doubt added to the database of domestic extremists).
Now, correct me if I'm wrong but don't we have a policy of innocent until proven guilty under our legal system? And the last time I looked we had the right to protest and express our opinions. Isn't that why that man from the BNP got to appear on Question Time with his sweaty disposition and abhorrent political viewpoint? And also why Abu Hamza got to rant his abhorrent political viewpoint into a sweaty disposition?
For fear of sounding like a 'domestic extremist', can I suggest the public wake up from their recession-induced comas and start to look at the fact that Lech Walesa's name and photo was probably also on a list before he became the face of a democratic Poland... and perhaps the names that should be on a database of those threatening our society and future existence might just be found amongst the board members of blue chip companies and those bankers hastily transfering their six-figure bonuses off-shore, ooh, right about now.
Political dismay over with, Mr Singh and I jumped on the 73 bus to UCH for our first scan of the Singhlette. This was undoubtedly the most exciting day since we found out we were expecting. Possibly more exciting as we've now got our respective heads around the idea that our lives will change forever and we will cease to be able to consider ourselves with it, cool or in control of our destiny (or, in my case, my density). After the relatively short waiting time of 45 minutes, we were ushered into a darkened room and warm jelly was rubbed onto my expanding midriff. Ever the film director, Mr Singh asked the sonographer to hang on whilst he got the camera phone into video mode to record his future offspring in motion (he was dismissed with the curtness of the Służba Bezpieczeństwa [Polish secret service] when asked whether Lech could organise a small get together at the Gdansk shipyard).
And then the most amazing thing happened - we saw this fully formed little baby appear on the screen, rolling around waving its arms and opening its little mouth. For the very first time, our little Singhlette became a real person, separate to us but connected. We saw its brain and heard its heart beating at 155 bpm. It kept wriggling out of the picture and so it took some time to get the money shots, but there it was for us both to see. Have to say, it didn't look hugely impressed at having a giant roller thing pressing into its head taking snapshots, but frankly, life will be more challenging once it's out and it looked happy enough tucked up in the human duvet that is its mother's uterus. The romance of the moment was deflated somewhat by the fact the computer wasn't working properly and they couldn't save the images so had to do it again and asked us to come back in an hour to get the definite results that we were low risk deformity and to confirm that there really were two hands, two feet and an umbilical cord in the picture.
We took our three slightly grainy images of 7.17cm of unborn child off for lunch, a double celebration given it was also our first wedding anniversary, exactly a year since we sat at the top of a castle in Rajasthan and promised everlasting fidelity to the lilting prayers of a Nihang priest surrounded by friends and family giddy on the romance of it all. We raised a glass of champagne (very decadent considering Mr Singh's abstaining due to extended exposure to Holsten Pils and I'm up the duff) and forgot for an hour or so the impending doom of defaulting on a mortgage the size of a third world national debt and a visa bill Paris Hilton would be ashamed of. Instead, we remembered how much we loved each other and how exciting it was to have a small creature on its way that would be a bit of both of us....and a lot of itself.
Woke up to find that we're living in a police state, a sort of Latin American banana republic (just watch the politicians slipping on banana [expenses] skins....) but with shit weather and less competent leadership. It would seem the police have been keeping secret databases on 'domestic extremists', i.e. individuals who are prone to protesting but who haven't actually done anything illegal... they might, however, have a predisposition to antagonise the state in the future, and so the police felt obliged to document these reprobates (in secret, to protect their privacy, naturally) as a potential threat to the smooth running of the country by big wigs who don't want to worry themselves with minor details such as electorate interference in things they don't fully understand. But the innocent have nothing to fear from finding their name and mugshot on a database leaked to the press by police officers who will be disciplined once they've been identified (and no doubt added to the database of domestic extremists).
Now, correct me if I'm wrong but don't we have a policy of innocent until proven guilty under our legal system? And the last time I looked we had the right to protest and express our opinions. Isn't that why that man from the BNP got to appear on Question Time with his sweaty disposition and abhorrent political viewpoint? And also why Abu Hamza got to rant his abhorrent political viewpoint into a sweaty disposition?
For fear of sounding like a 'domestic extremist', can I suggest the public wake up from their recession-induced comas and start to look at the fact that Lech Walesa's name and photo was probably also on a list before he became the face of a democratic Poland... and perhaps the names that should be on a database of those threatening our society and future existence might just be found amongst the board members of blue chip companies and those bankers hastily transfering their six-figure bonuses off-shore, ooh, right about now.
Political dismay over with, Mr Singh and I jumped on the 73 bus to UCH for our first scan of the Singhlette. This was undoubtedly the most exciting day since we found out we were expecting. Possibly more exciting as we've now got our respective heads around the idea that our lives will change forever and we will cease to be able to consider ourselves with it, cool or in control of our destiny (or, in my case, my density). After the relatively short waiting time of 45 minutes, we were ushered into a darkened room and warm jelly was rubbed onto my expanding midriff. Ever the film director, Mr Singh asked the sonographer to hang on whilst he got the camera phone into video mode to record his future offspring in motion (he was dismissed with the curtness of the Służba Bezpieczeństwa [Polish secret service] when asked whether Lech could organise a small get together at the Gdansk shipyard).
And then the most amazing thing happened - we saw this fully formed little baby appear on the screen, rolling around waving its arms and opening its little mouth. For the very first time, our little Singhlette became a real person, separate to us but connected. We saw its brain and heard its heart beating at 155 bpm. It kept wriggling out of the picture and so it took some time to get the money shots, but there it was for us both to see. Have to say, it didn't look hugely impressed at having a giant roller thing pressing into its head taking snapshots, but frankly, life will be more challenging once it's out and it looked happy enough tucked up in the human duvet that is its mother's uterus. The romance of the moment was deflated somewhat by the fact the computer wasn't working properly and they couldn't save the images so had to do it again and asked us to come back in an hour to get the definite results that we were low risk deformity and to confirm that there really were two hands, two feet and an umbilical cord in the picture.
We took our three slightly grainy images of 7.17cm of unborn child off for lunch, a double celebration given it was also our first wedding anniversary, exactly a year since we sat at the top of a castle in Rajasthan and promised everlasting fidelity to the lilting prayers of a Nihang priest surrounded by friends and family giddy on the romance of it all. We raised a glass of champagne (very decadent considering Mr Singh's abstaining due to extended exposure to Holsten Pils and I'm up the duff) and forgot for an hour or so the impending doom of defaulting on a mortgage the size of a third world national debt and a visa bill Paris Hilton would be ashamed of. Instead, we remembered how much we loved each other and how exciting it was to have a small creature on its way that would be a bit of both of us....and a lot of itself.
Sunday 25 October 2009
Sad Dave and Boring Sue
Sunday
Met the girls for lunch yesterday - quite exciting to go into town (wah-hey) considering my dull life sat at home, being poor and getting fat. Skipped along Piccadilly for fifteen minutes (uncharacteristic earliness a sign of the sad life of nothingness I'm leading) looking in expensive boutiques and snorting at the exhorbitant cost of postcards and art books in the Phaidon shop (if anyone wants to buy me an excessively priced gift, there's a lovely anthology of le Courbousier's work [is that spelling right? I always get it confused with the cognac...] for £80).
Sat myself in the comfortingly dated Richoux tea room (having changed my mind on the table three times until the waitress said 'sorry, that's reserved' with a sigh that clearly meant 'shut up, sit down and order something - can't you see we're busy and have no time for indecision') and waited. Nearby was the dullest looking couple - grey appearance complimenting apparent lack of personality - and an American pair that included an overly made up (and overly cut up, it would seem) older woman who ordered scrambled eggs with-no-butter-I-have-dietary-requirements-and-no-salt-how-do-you-cook-the-mushrooms-boiled-perfect-oh-and-I-like-my-eggs-well-cooked-no-wet-bits-and-plain-white-toast-no-butter-thank-you.
Social commentary done with, my girls arrived and we got down to the serious business of hugging, chatting and giggling (forty minutes later we managed to place an order). I'm now feeling more confident when telling the select few people we've shared our secret with (some by mistake as 'we're having a baby' pours out of the mouth before you can put your hand up to stop it'), no escaping it I suppose, even though it is still unofficial until we have the scan next week and see the little blighter floating around in my newly expanded tummy (and sat upon my poor put upon bladder). But I'd weighed it up that actually if something did go wrong, these are people I would feel comfortable getting hideously drunk with and doing snotty nosed weeping without being smothered by sympathy and pitiful gazes.
Happy few hours over, I prepared to run home to finish my Nigella chocolate cake for my brother's birthday feeling full to the brim with female loveliness. My girls stroked my belly adoringly as we hugged goodbye and I realised with horror that (hormone induced baby head striking again) today's 'I forgot...' was to brush my teeth. Between the lack of dental dilligence and the hideous ulcers rampant as a result of baby blighter supressing my immune system, I must smell like a tramp who'd snogged a dog. How awful. Forgetting posh shoes and dry cleaning is one thing, walking back into fishmonger to try to remember what you wanted (that day's 'I forget....' was the shopping list ) is one thing, but not brushing teeth or forgetting to put on jeans (no, not got there just yet) is slightly more embarassing. What I don't understand is how I can remember deep shit like analysis of late twentieth century media and the globalisation of broadcasting, but where I put the tea bags (answer: the bathroom) completely out-foxes me.
After family visit for tea and cake, we went to my brother's birthday dinner. Never was our impending middle aged status more apparent than sitting at a table of 20-somethings looking glamorous and preparing for a night of debauchery as we sat at the end not drinking and talking with my parents (not that they aren't lovely, but they are post 50 and more interested in Patrick Swayze re-runs than 'having it large' in Shoreditch). As soon as the pizza plates were cleared, we upped and left with the parents and were on the sofa watching a documentary about depleted fish stocks drinking herbal tea by 10:30, asleep in the chair by 11. Fuck. I suppose that's it.
Woke up at 7am, which was actually 6am because the clocks had gone back. Mr Singh sighed as he got up 'suppose Sad Dave had better get on with the gardening'. With an equal sigh I, Boring Sue, got up to make tea and check the lottery tickets (we hadn't won, natch).
Met the girls for lunch yesterday - quite exciting to go into town (wah-hey) considering my dull life sat at home, being poor and getting fat. Skipped along Piccadilly for fifteen minutes (uncharacteristic earliness a sign of the sad life of nothingness I'm leading) looking in expensive boutiques and snorting at the exhorbitant cost of postcards and art books in the Phaidon shop (if anyone wants to buy me an excessively priced gift, there's a lovely anthology of le Courbousier's work [is that spelling right? I always get it confused with the cognac...] for £80).
Sat myself in the comfortingly dated Richoux tea room (having changed my mind on the table three times until the waitress said 'sorry, that's reserved' with a sigh that clearly meant 'shut up, sit down and order something - can't you see we're busy and have no time for indecision') and waited. Nearby was the dullest looking couple - grey appearance complimenting apparent lack of personality - and an American pair that included an overly made up (and overly cut up, it would seem) older woman who ordered scrambled eggs with-no-butter-I-have-dietary-requirements-and-no-salt-how-do-you-cook-the-mushrooms-boiled-perfect-oh-and-I-like-my-eggs-well-cooked-no-wet-bits-and-plain-white-toast-no-butter-thank-you.
Social commentary done with, my girls arrived and we got down to the serious business of hugging, chatting and giggling (forty minutes later we managed to place an order). I'm now feeling more confident when telling the select few people we've shared our secret with (some by mistake as 'we're having a baby' pours out of the mouth before you can put your hand up to stop it'), no escaping it I suppose, even though it is still unofficial until we have the scan next week and see the little blighter floating around in my newly expanded tummy (and sat upon my poor put upon bladder). But I'd weighed it up that actually if something did go wrong, these are people I would feel comfortable getting hideously drunk with and doing snotty nosed weeping without being smothered by sympathy and pitiful gazes.
Happy few hours over, I prepared to run home to finish my Nigella chocolate cake for my brother's birthday feeling full to the brim with female loveliness. My girls stroked my belly adoringly as we hugged goodbye and I realised with horror that (hormone induced baby head striking again) today's 'I forgot...' was to brush my teeth. Between the lack of dental dilligence and the hideous ulcers rampant as a result of baby blighter supressing my immune system, I must smell like a tramp who'd snogged a dog. How awful. Forgetting posh shoes and dry cleaning is one thing, walking back into fishmonger to try to remember what you wanted (that day's 'I forget....' was the shopping list ) is one thing, but not brushing teeth or forgetting to put on jeans (no, not got there just yet) is slightly more embarassing. What I don't understand is how I can remember deep shit like analysis of late twentieth century media and the globalisation of broadcasting, but where I put the tea bags (answer: the bathroom) completely out-foxes me.
After family visit for tea and cake, we went to my brother's birthday dinner. Never was our impending middle aged status more apparent than sitting at a table of 20-somethings looking glamorous and preparing for a night of debauchery as we sat at the end not drinking and talking with my parents (not that they aren't lovely, but they are post 50 and more interested in Patrick Swayze re-runs than 'having it large' in Shoreditch). As soon as the pizza plates were cleared, we upped and left with the parents and were on the sofa watching a documentary about depleted fish stocks drinking herbal tea by 10:30, asleep in the chair by 11. Fuck. I suppose that's it.
Woke up at 7am, which was actually 6am because the clocks had gone back. Mr Singh sighed as he got up 'suppose Sad Dave had better get on with the gardening'. With an equal sigh I, Boring Sue, got up to make tea and check the lottery tickets (we hadn't won, natch).
Friday 23 October 2009
Twats and Arses (or Black Holes and White Supremicists)
Thursday Evening
Either way you look at it, it's been a disturbing evening.
Firstly, the spectre of the-man-we-won't-name-for-fear-of-increasing-his-profile. Let's call him Twatface. Twatface is a well known facist fringe politician who recently secured a place in the European parliament. As a result he got himself a somewhat controversial seat on Question Time leading to extensive media coverage and frantic Twittering. The appearance was as expected - outraged mainstream politicians vying for votes and a winning place as 'most outraged democratic liberal type in Britain' facing a badly disguised bigot attempting to break into the public affection with poorly constructed and emotive statements about Winston Churchill and the impending demise of the British people (shaking hands and excessive use of blushing pauses underlying his ineptitude in an environment of such sophistication - and Question Time is pretty mainstream and lacking sophstication!). The voice of sanity and calm was writer and historian Bonnie Greer who's erudite and straightforward deconstruction of Twatface's ill informed arguments impressed even the racist himself. But enough about him, let's talk about me.
I curled up in bed feeling slightly disturbed at the possibility that Suffolk's answer to Dr Evil could end up running the country and force me to leave the soon to be mono-cultural English idyll of pig-eating, chip waving, bulldog tattooed NF dream for the comparitively cosmopolitan environment of rural Punjab. I picked up my pregnancy guide thinking that a spot of mental preparation for the birth of my unborn child would perk me up. I turned to the pages dealing with childbirth.
Let's start with the good bits - drugs. A selection of opiate-based and other medication is freely distributed once contractions kick in with suitable regularity. Now, the plan is to go as far as we can with self-hypnotherapy in a warm birthing pool with nothing but the soothing smell of lavender essential oil and soft lighting to disturb the natural birthing process as Mr Singh and I hold hands and welcome this new spirit into the physical world. The reality, I appreciate, might be considerably less cosmic and a bit more like a bad day at the dentist (with essential root canal work taking place in my undercarriage). And so I am preparing myself with a pecking order of narcotics to help along the way. Reading between the lines of vetran mums accounts of childbirth, anything that starts with 'I felt out of it and disorientated' sounds good, and anything that includes 'just don't let the father-to-be at it' works for Mr Singh. I'm not, however, quite so enthusiastic about anything that require tubes to be inserted into my spine through hollow needles whilst I hold completely still during a flange-ripping contraction. What's wrong with old fashioned needles a-la-Trainspotting?
And now the not-so-good bits. Why did no-one tell me before I got pregnant that there was a chance not only of my female parts ripping (given - just make sure it's not a student stitching me up and try to pre-empt this with a tactical snip) but that it can go as far as your ANUS! It is perfectly possible that you rip from your flange up into your bottom... require stitches and may (in extreme cases) lead to complicatioms defecating. WHAT THE FU@K?!?! Followed by the reassuring 'however, the chance of this occuring can be reduced by massaging oil into the perineum for 6 weeks prior to the due date, 'perhaps you could ask your partner to assist with this' (I think this was a popular suggestion as Mr Singh asked if we needed to start this earlier today....).
So with a heavy heart, I turned off the light ready to sleep. However I look at it, it was a day of arseholes (some more palatable than others).
Either way you look at it, it's been a disturbing evening.
Firstly, the spectre of the-man-we-won't-name-for-fear-of-increasing-his-profile. Let's call him Twatface. Twatface is a well known facist fringe politician who recently secured a place in the European parliament. As a result he got himself a somewhat controversial seat on Question Time leading to extensive media coverage and frantic Twittering. The appearance was as expected - outraged mainstream politicians vying for votes and a winning place as 'most outraged democratic liberal type in Britain' facing a badly disguised bigot attempting to break into the public affection with poorly constructed and emotive statements about Winston Churchill and the impending demise of the British people (shaking hands and excessive use of blushing pauses underlying his ineptitude in an environment of such sophistication - and Question Time is pretty mainstream and lacking sophstication!). The voice of sanity and calm was writer and historian Bonnie Greer who's erudite and straightforward deconstruction of Twatface's ill informed arguments impressed even the racist himself. But enough about him, let's talk about me.
I curled up in bed feeling slightly disturbed at the possibility that Suffolk's answer to Dr Evil could end up running the country and force me to leave the soon to be mono-cultural English idyll of pig-eating, chip waving, bulldog tattooed NF dream for the comparitively cosmopolitan environment of rural Punjab. I picked up my pregnancy guide thinking that a spot of mental preparation for the birth of my unborn child would perk me up. I turned to the pages dealing with childbirth.
Let's start with the good bits - drugs. A selection of opiate-based and other medication is freely distributed once contractions kick in with suitable regularity. Now, the plan is to go as far as we can with self-hypnotherapy in a warm birthing pool with nothing but the soothing smell of lavender essential oil and soft lighting to disturb the natural birthing process as Mr Singh and I hold hands and welcome this new spirit into the physical world. The reality, I appreciate, might be considerably less cosmic and a bit more like a bad day at the dentist (with essential root canal work taking place in my undercarriage). And so I am preparing myself with a pecking order of narcotics to help along the way. Reading between the lines of vetran mums accounts of childbirth, anything that starts with 'I felt out of it and disorientated' sounds good, and anything that includes 'just don't let the father-to-be at it' works for Mr Singh. I'm not, however, quite so enthusiastic about anything that require tubes to be inserted into my spine through hollow needles whilst I hold completely still during a flange-ripping contraction. What's wrong with old fashioned needles a-la-Trainspotting?
And now the not-so-good bits. Why did no-one tell me before I got pregnant that there was a chance not only of my female parts ripping (given - just make sure it's not a student stitching me up and try to pre-empt this with a tactical snip) but that it can go as far as your ANUS! It is perfectly possible that you rip from your flange up into your bottom... require stitches and may (in extreme cases) lead to complicatioms defecating. WHAT THE FU@K?!?! Followed by the reassuring 'however, the chance of this occuring can be reduced by massaging oil into the perineum for 6 weeks prior to the due date, 'perhaps you could ask your partner to assist with this' (I think this was a popular suggestion as Mr Singh asked if we needed to start this earlier today....).
So with a heavy heart, I turned off the light ready to sleep. However I look at it, it was a day of arseholes (some more palatable than others).
Public Inconvenience
Thursday
Enjoyed a reassuringly delicious coffee at a cafe near Borough Market this morning. When one is limited to a single cup a day, it's seriously disappointing to get a weak and milky cup slopping its way onto the counter. What I'm looking for is rich, dark, bitter coffee with a swirl of froth on the top. I want to feel the kick as it tweaks my tastebuds and leaves a stain on the teeth. I want to know that a small army of underpaid workers have not been exploited in vain just to produce a pointless cup of homogenous hot milk presented in an oversized branded mug with a drizzle of sickly syrup from a double-skinny-wanky-time-wasting-homely-decor-coffee-chain-that-makes-me-hate-globalisation. I do not want a latte or a decaf or an 'Americana' burnt offering that's been left in the pot for hours. Ideally, I want a formica table topped old fashioned 'caf' run by 1950s Italians with a London accent, but failing that the little cafe on Borough High Street opposite Barclays bank with fab looking slices of cake and coffee that tastes like coffee in anonymous paper cups works a treat. And breath - coffee rant over.
Following my worthy (in the best sense) coffee and girly chat, I head off in the direction of London Bridge and the saftey of North London. On my way I realise I need yet-another-pee (well, it's been an hour and half). Quite desperately. So, I pop into Southwark cathedral but there's no-one around (perfect opportunity to nick the silverware, if you're that way inclined, which I'm not, in fact I put 50p in the pot and lit a candle) to ask if I could use the vestry loo as I'm pregnant (pregnancy, I'm learning, is the perfect excuse to do things you wouldn't normally - ask for a seat, use the loo, etc). I try the cafe at the bottom of the steps but they stare at me in a surly way and I can't be bothered to have the debate and so run up the stairs thinking that there must be a loo in London Bridge station.
Five minutes later and I'm following the signs to the 'Toilet - Platform 13', which they neglect to mention is effectively on the other side of London it's so far away. What's more, as I reach platform 10 my path is barred by the ticket barriers and it takes half a minute (with me hopping from leg to leg) to get the attention of the platform attendant who kindly informs me that it (the loo) is taking people's money but not letting them spend the provervial penny and that I'd better try the (free) toilet on platform 5. Thanking her, I turn and dash back across London to the entrance to platforms 1-6 and another ticket barrier. The attendant there quips and jokes as he lets me through the barrier and off I run (I must be approaching Dover by now) and up the ramp to platform 5. Another half a mile along the platform and we're finally at the Ladies (technically, on Platform 6, but let's not split hairs) and... in a queue. Several minutes of foot swapping and vertical leg crossing and I'm finally in and sat on a slightly damp seat enjoying possibly the best pee ever.
If someone could invent a discreet portable potty for expectant women , they would make a fortune.
Enjoyed a reassuringly delicious coffee at a cafe near Borough Market this morning. When one is limited to a single cup a day, it's seriously disappointing to get a weak and milky cup slopping its way onto the counter. What I'm looking for is rich, dark, bitter coffee with a swirl of froth on the top. I want to feel the kick as it tweaks my tastebuds and leaves a stain on the teeth. I want to know that a small army of underpaid workers have not been exploited in vain just to produce a pointless cup of homogenous hot milk presented in an oversized branded mug with a drizzle of sickly syrup from a double-skinny-wanky-time-wasting-homely-decor-coffee-chain-that-makes-me-hate-globalisation. I do not want a latte or a decaf or an 'Americana' burnt offering that's been left in the pot for hours. Ideally, I want a formica table topped old fashioned 'caf' run by 1950s Italians with a London accent, but failing that the little cafe on Borough High Street opposite Barclays bank with fab looking slices of cake and coffee that tastes like coffee in anonymous paper cups works a treat. And breath - coffee rant over.
Following my worthy (in the best sense) coffee and girly chat, I head off in the direction of London Bridge and the saftey of North London. On my way I realise I need yet-another-pee (well, it's been an hour and half). Quite desperately. So, I pop into Southwark cathedral but there's no-one around (perfect opportunity to nick the silverware, if you're that way inclined, which I'm not, in fact I put 50p in the pot and lit a candle) to ask if I could use the vestry loo as I'm pregnant (pregnancy, I'm learning, is the perfect excuse to do things you wouldn't normally - ask for a seat, use the loo, etc). I try the cafe at the bottom of the steps but they stare at me in a surly way and I can't be bothered to have the debate and so run up the stairs thinking that there must be a loo in London Bridge station.
Five minutes later and I'm following the signs to the 'Toilet - Platform 13', which they neglect to mention is effectively on the other side of London it's so far away. What's more, as I reach platform 10 my path is barred by the ticket barriers and it takes half a minute (with me hopping from leg to leg) to get the attention of the platform attendant who kindly informs me that it (the loo) is taking people's money but not letting them spend the provervial penny and that I'd better try the (free) toilet on platform 5. Thanking her, I turn and dash back across London to the entrance to platforms 1-6 and another ticket barrier. The attendant there quips and jokes as he lets me through the barrier and off I run (I must be approaching Dover by now) and up the ramp to platform 5. Another half a mile along the platform and we're finally at the Ladies (technically, on Platform 6, but let's not split hairs) and... in a queue. Several minutes of foot swapping and vertical leg crossing and I'm finally in and sat on a slightly damp seat enjoying possibly the best pee ever.
If someone could invent a discreet portable potty for expectant women , they would make a fortune.
Waiting Time
Tuesday:
Hospital appointment set for 12:30 at UCH's shiny antenatal facilities ("why is it anti-baby if it's for pregnant people?" my husband, Mr Singh, had asked the last time we went only to respond with uncharacteristic depth "oh...I thought it meant anti pregnant people..." when told that 'ante' was actually 'before' and 'natal' birth, bless him). Mr Singh declined to attend this trip on the basis that it would take all day, which I dismissed as laziness and a lack of interest in our unborn child, but turned out to be prophetic. and a better use of his time. So off I went on the 476 bus to Euston hoping I could manage a full 40 minute journey without peeing. Arrived five minutes early, but held on to pee and joined the queue feeling smug and like the friend of the NHS I believe my new private-healthcare-free state has turned me into.
"Oh hello....," said the receptionist, "there's a slight delay today"
"How long is slight?" I ask, suspicious of this new 'service orientated' health service
"About an hour and a half"
More than a slight delay but we'll let it slide, I thought with a sigh, "So I have time to go for a cup of tea then?"
"Well, you need to give a sample first," presenting me with the pre-requisite plastic pot, "and we'll take your blood pressure... then you'll have around half an our before you need to be back here.
Now, even my grade B GCSE maths can work out that a quick pee + blood pressure + 30 minutes doesn't equate to one and a half hours, but who was I to argue and so I produced the obligatory small pot of pee, washed soggy fingers (has anyone found a way to pee in the pot without drenching hand?) and sat amongst a room full of pot bellied women rejoicing in the fact that I was the most slim and glamorous woman in the room with just a smidgen of a bulge across my midriff and ankles the rights side of 'slender' in super tight leggings.
Blood pressure taken, pee pot dated and signed, I went off to to find a spot of reading material and a cup of non-caffinated herbal tea. Now, as a woman who has built a daily schedule around regular cups of porcelain staining Asaam or English Breakfast tea (with Earl Grey mid-afternoon for a little variation), I was suprised to find that more than any of the other 'sacrifices' the would-be-mother has to make, the limiting of tea consumption is the hardest to deal with. Bottle of red wine in the evening? Gone. Cigarettes? The odd whiff of second hand after dinner smoke is more than adequate. Italian-spoon-standing-up coffee? A thing of the past. But the recommended 2-3 cups a day of tea is done by 9am as I slurp the last of the tea from the pot over my online news and email reading. Surely the baby can handle a couple more cups of Twinings than that? There are crackwhores out there who gives birth to children clutching a glass pipe, how can such an innocuous leaf By Royal Appointment do damage to a foetus?! But the nanny state (ba-boom) is such that they even want to remove my small remaining pleasures and so with a heavy heart I pick up the nauseatingly virtuous 'zingy' ginger and lemon tea bag and drop it into the hot water filled (recycled) paper cup with the enthusiasm of a taxi driver giving way to a cyclist.
After waiting an indeterminable amount of time (but definitely more than one and a half hours) my name is called by a reassuringly plum-voiced man who introduces himself as my obstetrician. Our meeting is pretty swift, just a few questions, confirmation that the near exhaustion and adolescent levels of food consumption are perfectly normal, followed by a worrying snigger when I mention that we have twins in three out of four parents' families. With a swirl of pen on the form, he informs me that I've a scan next week (which I know) and need to give more blood as they messed up the last test (which I know) and tells me to come back and see him in two months. So, nearly two hours waiting to find out what I already know and to be laughed at when I express concern that I might be having twins. Now, that's worth the national insurance!
Hospital appointment set for 12:30 at UCH's shiny antenatal facilities ("why is it anti-baby if it's for pregnant people?" my husband, Mr Singh, had asked the last time we went only to respond with uncharacteristic depth "oh...I thought it meant anti pregnant people..." when told that 'ante' was actually 'before' and 'natal' birth, bless him). Mr Singh declined to attend this trip on the basis that it would take all day, which I dismissed as laziness and a lack of interest in our unborn child, but turned out to be prophetic. and a better use of his time. So off I went on the 476 bus to Euston hoping I could manage a full 40 minute journey without peeing. Arrived five minutes early, but held on to pee and joined the queue feeling smug and like the friend of the NHS I believe my new private-healthcare-free state has turned me into.
"Oh hello....," said the receptionist, "there's a slight delay today"
"How long is slight?" I ask, suspicious of this new 'service orientated' health service
"About an hour and a half"
More than a slight delay but we'll let it slide, I thought with a sigh, "So I have time to go for a cup of tea then?"
"Well, you need to give a sample first," presenting me with the pre-requisite plastic pot, "and we'll take your blood pressure... then you'll have around half an our before you need to be back here.
Now, even my grade B GCSE maths can work out that a quick pee + blood pressure + 30 minutes doesn't equate to one and a half hours, but who was I to argue and so I produced the obligatory small pot of pee, washed soggy fingers (has anyone found a way to pee in the pot without drenching hand?) and sat amongst a room full of pot bellied women rejoicing in the fact that I was the most slim and glamorous woman in the room with just a smidgen of a bulge across my midriff and ankles the rights side of 'slender' in super tight leggings.
Blood pressure taken, pee pot dated and signed, I went off to to find a spot of reading material and a cup of non-caffinated herbal tea. Now, as a woman who has built a daily schedule around regular cups of porcelain staining Asaam or English Breakfast tea (with Earl Grey mid-afternoon for a little variation), I was suprised to find that more than any of the other 'sacrifices' the would-be-mother has to make, the limiting of tea consumption is the hardest to deal with. Bottle of red wine in the evening? Gone. Cigarettes? The odd whiff of second hand after dinner smoke is more than adequate. Italian-spoon-standing-up coffee? A thing of the past. But the recommended 2-3 cups a day of tea is done by 9am as I slurp the last of the tea from the pot over my online news and email reading. Surely the baby can handle a couple more cups of Twinings than that? There are crackwhores out there who gives birth to children clutching a glass pipe, how can such an innocuous leaf By Royal Appointment do damage to a foetus?! But the nanny state (ba-boom) is such that they even want to remove my small remaining pleasures and so with a heavy heart I pick up the nauseatingly virtuous 'zingy' ginger and lemon tea bag and drop it into the hot water filled (recycled) paper cup with the enthusiasm of a taxi driver giving way to a cyclist.
After waiting an indeterminable amount of time (but definitely more than one and a half hours) my name is called by a reassuringly plum-voiced man who introduces himself as my obstetrician. Our meeting is pretty swift, just a few questions, confirmation that the near exhaustion and adolescent levels of food consumption are perfectly normal, followed by a worrying snigger when I mention that we have twins in three out of four parents' families. With a swirl of pen on the form, he informs me that I've a scan next week (which I know) and need to give more blood as they messed up the last test (which I know) and tells me to come back and see him in two months. So, nearly two hours waiting to find out what I already know and to be laughed at when I express concern that I might be having twins. Now, that's worth the national insurance!
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