Tuesday
Well, been something of a hiatus in blogging whilst we handled Christmas and got into a New Year. In brief, Baby is coming along nicely - 20week scan went according to plan, more photos of blurry unborn creature, my child has giant feet, it's pretty much all there (albeit tiny and in need of fattening up), and now it feels like the little blighter is trying to fight its way out on a daily basis. In terms of myself, the 'valium' hormone kicked in early December making everything just a little easier to cope with and furry, I've outgrown all my non-maternity clothing, and I'm beginning to have trouble sleeping due to poor tortured muscles where this uber-athlete child is stretching its way around my insides. Most noticable thing about the baby? It talks to me. I don't mean that in a cosmic 'I'm an earth mother' kind of way, but in a practical down to earth way. For example, if I eat late, it kicks me until I feed it (regular, repeated, hard kicks). After I've fed it something it's particularly taken with, it does sporadic little appreciative kicks that don't hurt. If I take it completely out of kilter (say, eat late and have a large glass of wine with no water and get to sleep after normal bedtime), I swear it sulks the next day, not wanting to be stroked or touched and giving out a general sense of grumpiness (much like its father, it has to be said). And it loves satsumas - normally, I eat the odd one but I've been eating bags of the things, can't put them down and the baby gives off a feeling of general satisfaction.
So now we're half way through the relatively pleasant second trimester - we're 24 and a bit weeks, with the final 3 months looming ahead as we try to prepare our house for fast cash-rich sale and move ourselves into alternative accommodation with a smaller price tag. Have to say, I'm dreading it, but Mr Singh has picked up the ante, has been decorating like a demon and gone from post-adolescent tantrums to embracing the wonders of impending fatherhood (so much so that he purchase real trousers in the the sale rather than jeans, a mark of his developing maturity apparently).
Tuesday, 12 January 2010
Tuesday, 17 November 2009
Chateau Singhlette: What's In A Name?
Monday
Thoroughly enjoyed reading the Sunday papers online, especially (note irony in voice) the article about drinking (moderately) during pregnancy (http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/wordofmouth/2009/nov/02/drinking-alcohol-pregnant-advice). If I read another article or hear another instruction as to what I must so whilst pregnant, I'm going postal. With a large sixtieth-anniversary Kalashnikov and nine months worth of amunition. Whilst information and education are wonderful things that transform people's lives, there's an awful lot to be said for the old adage 'a little bit of knowledge is a dangerous thing'. The article itself was down to earth, sensible thinking about the contradictions surrounding advice to pregnant women and a woman's choices (or lack of) whilst gestating her child (not, it has to be said, the the child of the bulk of people telling her what to do). What made me want to knock my head against a brick wall repeatedly were the many comments about persuading a woman to abstain totally from alcohol, about what terrible risks a woman puts in front of her child, yawn, yawn, interfering old gits.
Fact is, women have been having children for millenia. Fact is, there is so much pollution and toxins reaching our bodies from sources beyond our control, we have to be pragmatic and non-hysterical just to get to the newsagents and back. Women have babies, they aren't incubators - get over it. If a pregnant woman wants to have a glass of wine or (sharp intake of breath) a quick drag on someone's cigarette, frankly, it is no-one's business but their own. It does not mean they're a a bad mother and it does not mean they have condemned their child to a life of disability and learning difficulties as a result of selfish indulgence. If you're worrying about the country's children, do something useful and go foster.
A pregnant woman is not public property and, as an article yesterday pointed out, we might want to stop treating children as deities and remember that in our over-crowded world where we let have the population starve or suffer at the hands of our needless greed (such as Falluja - as a result of our interfering in an oil-rich state by bombing the fuck out of them with toxic nasties, there has been a dramatic rise in tumours and birth defects), it seems a bit rich to complain when one Western woman chooses a nice glass of Rioja over dinner with friends.
Mr Singh and I are now in the other ante-natal minefield of debating baby names. We have an excel sheet (I know, I know, I have excel sheets for everything - from barbecues to weddings) and we've got a list from the Penguin book of names that we're now adding comments and giving marks out of ten, a bit like the ice skating or Stictly Come Dancing. I like to think I'm at least consistent - the names I liked when we went through the book are the names I like now. But not Mr Singh who is liking things I snuck on the list thinking he wouldn't and disliking things he previously said he liked. We're also having an additional translational issue as he tries to say each name in English then Punjabi. When I ask him to get a wriggle on and just give me a score out of ten, incorporating both cultural considerations, he accuses me of not caring about his cultural heritage and wanting to drown out my child's Punjabi routes by making it completely white. He is, alas, only half joking as the bag of paranoid second generation immigrant chips jostle to be noticed on his shoulder.
Thoroughly enjoyed reading the Sunday papers online, especially (note irony in voice) the article about drinking (moderately) during pregnancy (http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/wordofmouth/2009/nov/02/drinking-alcohol-pregnant-advice). If I read another article or hear another instruction as to what I must so whilst pregnant, I'm going postal. With a large sixtieth-anniversary Kalashnikov and nine months worth of amunition. Whilst information and education are wonderful things that transform people's lives, there's an awful lot to be said for the old adage 'a little bit of knowledge is a dangerous thing'. The article itself was down to earth, sensible thinking about the contradictions surrounding advice to pregnant women and a woman's choices (or lack of) whilst gestating her child (not, it has to be said, the the child of the bulk of people telling her what to do). What made me want to knock my head against a brick wall repeatedly were the many comments about persuading a woman to abstain totally from alcohol, about what terrible risks a woman puts in front of her child, yawn, yawn, interfering old gits.
Fact is, women have been having children for millenia. Fact is, there is so much pollution and toxins reaching our bodies from sources beyond our control, we have to be pragmatic and non-hysterical just to get to the newsagents and back. Women have babies, they aren't incubators - get over it. If a pregnant woman wants to have a glass of wine or (sharp intake of breath) a quick drag on someone's cigarette, frankly, it is no-one's business but their own. It does not mean they're a a bad mother and it does not mean they have condemned their child to a life of disability and learning difficulties as a result of selfish indulgence. If you're worrying about the country's children, do something useful and go foster.
A pregnant woman is not public property and, as an article yesterday pointed out, we might want to stop treating children as deities and remember that in our over-crowded world where we let have the population starve or suffer at the hands of our needless greed (such as Falluja - as a result of our interfering in an oil-rich state by bombing the fuck out of them with toxic nasties, there has been a dramatic rise in tumours and birth defects), it seems a bit rich to complain when one Western woman chooses a nice glass of Rioja over dinner with friends.
Mr Singh and I are now in the other ante-natal minefield of debating baby names. We have an excel sheet (I know, I know, I have excel sheets for everything - from barbecues to weddings) and we've got a list from the Penguin book of names that we're now adding comments and giving marks out of ten, a bit like the ice skating or Stictly Come Dancing. I like to think I'm at least consistent - the names I liked when we went through the book are the names I like now. But not Mr Singh who is liking things I snuck on the list thinking he wouldn't and disliking things he previously said he liked. We're also having an additional translational issue as he tries to say each name in English then Punjabi. When I ask him to get a wriggle on and just give me a score out of ten, incorporating both cultural considerations, he accuses me of not caring about his cultural heritage and wanting to drown out my child's Punjabi routes by making it completely white. He is, alas, only half joking as the bag of paranoid second generation immigrant chips jostle to be noticed on his shoulder.
Sunday, 15 November 2009
Comfort Food
Sunday
Have just re-read the last couple of blog updates and realise I'm in danger of becoming tediously dull and a self-pitying old bint. Time to come out of the doldrums, pull up my proverbials, and start enjoying this pregnancy lark. After all, there's no stopping the outward spread of my waistline and it is a perfect opportunity to consume all manner of indulgent food and do little around the house (nesting instinct notwithstanding). The fact is that Singhlette is doing well - the odd internal tumble to remind me s/he is there and alive, makes me very tired if up late or insufficient food available and (allegedly) s/he pees every 40-45 minutes inside the uterus. Now, apart from the fact it must smell like the headquarters of Incontinent Anonymous in there, I'm glad to see my beta is taking after Mummy Singh as I'm peeing at least every 45 minutes or (as with Friday night when I pished [pushed] the boat out on the lager shandy) as frequent as every fifteen minutes. A bit tedious and heavy on the recycled loo roll.
Other exciting developments is that Baby is now the size of an avacado and enjoys games like 'pull the umbilical cord' - might explain the odd sharp sensation (though that might be small but perfectly formed and knobbly feet, knees and elbow if its anything like its father) and the tumbling sensation as it falls over dizzy with oxygen deprevation as it cuts the life-giving flow. Apparently, it's going into a growth spurt, which means lots of lovely cake and afternoon snoozes for me.
On the subject of lovely cake, a news article this week has suggested we've misjudged our optimum calorie intake and we can all handle 300-odd (women) to 340-odd (men) extra calories a day, "the equivalent of an extra pint of lager" as one newsreader put it (shortly before going into coverage of how we're all increasingly obese or raging alcoholics in the UK). Now, given that obesity is on the rise in an alarmingly American kind of a way, one would think that actually our nation is already consuming that extra 300-odd calorie intake, along with a further x-trillion calories which is what could be causing the rising obesity issue and fat people's status as 'the new chav', object of national derision and social ostracization. As someone with a genuine justification for increasing her calorie intake so as to take up two seats on a plane (cattle class only, Dahling, one has plenty of room if one turns left on entering the aircraft and accepts the free glass of fizz accompanied by a warm, damp facecloth), I can see how a mere 300 calories disapeers in the blink of any eye, but I wonder if announcing this to a population already addicted to take-aways and alcopops should be encouraged by BBC news team?
In light of my new chirpy disposition, 36D-and-growing cleavage, MILF status(as Mr Singh so charmingly puts it) and weekly recipe planning sessions to incorporate the wide range of nutrients so necessary to the pregnant heffer, I've decided that I'm morphing into a cross between Nigella Lawson and Kirstie Allsopp (I can't stop looking up rural houses on the internet and reckon I could give them a run for their money on Location Location). Gone are the days of Parisian style waif, hello to saucy yet bossy middle class mother (I've been practising my best plummy home counties voice, though it does tend to drop when I'm pissed off and East End fisherwoman returns). So, with no further ado and extra flour brushing across my heaving bossom, here's today's recipe for busy scrummy mummys wherever you may be...
Jerusalem Artichoke Soup with Lardons or Anchovies
There's not much one can do with Jerusalem Artichokes, which are neither from Jerusalem nor artichokes, but were actually found in Cape Cod (I think) and named by some zealous Puritan explorer. They do, however, make great soup or can be roasted quite nicely. Be careful - flatulence can occur overnight, but they're a lovely little vegetable with a short season so make the most of them and keep the bathroom window ajar. The flavour is a bit nutty, earthy and like a comforting potato, so perfect for stormy nights or cold afternoons. Lardons or fried chopped bacon tastes best, though anchovies disolved in just before the end works for UK-vegetarians as it adds salt and bite (pure veg types will have to have it bland, or else add a bit of fried, meaty mushroom to perk it up). Needs no salt as the bacon/anchovies and Bouillon have plenty already. Best served with hot buttered cheese on toast.
olive oil for fying
1 onion, choppped
2-3 garlic cloves, chopped
15-20 Jerusalem artichokes, with skin, scrubbed and chopped into even pieces
2-3 small potatoes, peeled and chopped into small cubes
squeeze of lemon juice
1 litre of vegetable stock (no two ways about it, Bouillon is best)
Fresh grated nutmeg
Fresh ground black pepper
Bacon - around 2 slices chopped finely - or half tin of anchovies
(i) heat oil, fry onions then add garlic until the edges turn golden#
(ii) add Jerusalem artichokes and potatoe - stir it around until it all begins to soften - add a good squeeze of lemon (stops discolouration plus gives it a bit of zing)
(iii) grate in more nutmeg than you think and a good handful of black pepper - there is a danger of the soup becoming grey and gloupy, the spice gives it life).
(iv) put lid on - if cooking in a regular pan, I reckon you'll need to simmer for an hour or, better still, run the risk of a kitchen disaster and use the pressure cooker - it'll take 30 minutes, just remember to release the steam under the cold tap before opening.
(v) it's ready when the veg is soft and mashable, then whizz it with a blender (one can mash by hand with a potato masher but it's a bit of a pain and quite uneven). Leave it simmering gently with the lid off.
(vi) fry lardon until crispy then turn into the soup, with its fat, and stir through (same if using mushroom). If one is going down the anchovy route, stir little anchovy fillets into soup for a minute or two until it disolves.
(vii) serve in big bowls with a dollop of cream or creme fraiche.
Have just re-read the last couple of blog updates and realise I'm in danger of becoming tediously dull and a self-pitying old bint. Time to come out of the doldrums, pull up my proverbials, and start enjoying this pregnancy lark. After all, there's no stopping the outward spread of my waistline and it is a perfect opportunity to consume all manner of indulgent food and do little around the house (nesting instinct notwithstanding). The fact is that Singhlette is doing well - the odd internal tumble to remind me s/he is there and alive, makes me very tired if up late or insufficient food available and (allegedly) s/he pees every 40-45 minutes inside the uterus. Now, apart from the fact it must smell like the headquarters of Incontinent Anonymous in there, I'm glad to see my beta is taking after Mummy Singh as I'm peeing at least every 45 minutes or (as with Friday night when I pished [pushed] the boat out on the lager shandy) as frequent as every fifteen minutes. A bit tedious and heavy on the recycled loo roll.
Other exciting developments is that Baby is now the size of an avacado and enjoys games like 'pull the umbilical cord' - might explain the odd sharp sensation (though that might be small but perfectly formed and knobbly feet, knees and elbow if its anything like its father) and the tumbling sensation as it falls over dizzy with oxygen deprevation as it cuts the life-giving flow. Apparently, it's going into a growth spurt, which means lots of lovely cake and afternoon snoozes for me.
On the subject of lovely cake, a news article this week has suggested we've misjudged our optimum calorie intake and we can all handle 300-odd (women) to 340-odd (men) extra calories a day, "the equivalent of an extra pint of lager" as one newsreader put it (shortly before going into coverage of how we're all increasingly obese or raging alcoholics in the UK). Now, given that obesity is on the rise in an alarmingly American kind of a way, one would think that actually our nation is already consuming that extra 300-odd calorie intake, along with a further x-trillion calories which is what could be causing the rising obesity issue and fat people's status as 'the new chav', object of national derision and social ostracization. As someone with a genuine justification for increasing her calorie intake so as to take up two seats on a plane (cattle class only, Dahling, one has plenty of room if one turns left on entering the aircraft and accepts the free glass of fizz accompanied by a warm, damp facecloth), I can see how a mere 300 calories disapeers in the blink of any eye, but I wonder if announcing this to a population already addicted to take-aways and alcopops should be encouraged by BBC news team?
In light of my new chirpy disposition, 36D-and-growing cleavage, MILF status(as Mr Singh so charmingly puts it) and weekly recipe planning sessions to incorporate the wide range of nutrients so necessary to the pregnant heffer, I've decided that I'm morphing into a cross between Nigella Lawson and Kirstie Allsopp (I can't stop looking up rural houses on the internet and reckon I could give them a run for their money on Location Location). Gone are the days of Parisian style waif, hello to saucy yet bossy middle class mother (I've been practising my best plummy home counties voice, though it does tend to drop when I'm pissed off and East End fisherwoman returns). So, with no further ado and extra flour brushing across my heaving bossom, here's today's recipe for busy scrummy mummys wherever you may be...
Jerusalem Artichoke Soup with Lardons or Anchovies
There's not much one can do with Jerusalem Artichokes, which are neither from Jerusalem nor artichokes, but were actually found in Cape Cod (I think) and named by some zealous Puritan explorer. They do, however, make great soup or can be roasted quite nicely. Be careful - flatulence can occur overnight, but they're a lovely little vegetable with a short season so make the most of them and keep the bathroom window ajar. The flavour is a bit nutty, earthy and like a comforting potato, so perfect for stormy nights or cold afternoons. Lardons or fried chopped bacon tastes best, though anchovies disolved in just before the end works for UK-vegetarians as it adds salt and bite (pure veg types will have to have it bland, or else add a bit of fried, meaty mushroom to perk it up). Needs no salt as the bacon/anchovies and Bouillon have plenty already. Best served with hot buttered cheese on toast.
olive oil for fying
1 onion, choppped
2-3 garlic cloves, chopped
15-20 Jerusalem artichokes, with skin, scrubbed and chopped into even pieces
2-3 small potatoes, peeled and chopped into small cubes
squeeze of lemon juice
1 litre of vegetable stock (no two ways about it, Bouillon is best)
Fresh grated nutmeg
Fresh ground black pepper
Bacon - around 2 slices chopped finely - or half tin of anchovies
(i) heat oil, fry onions then add garlic until the edges turn golden#
(ii) add Jerusalem artichokes and potatoe - stir it around until it all begins to soften - add a good squeeze of lemon (stops discolouration plus gives it a bit of zing)
(iii) grate in more nutmeg than you think and a good handful of black pepper - there is a danger of the soup becoming grey and gloupy, the spice gives it life).
(iv) put lid on - if cooking in a regular pan, I reckon you'll need to simmer for an hour or, better still, run the risk of a kitchen disaster and use the pressure cooker - it'll take 30 minutes, just remember to release the steam under the cold tap before opening.
(v) it's ready when the veg is soft and mashable, then whizz it with a blender (one can mash by hand with a potato masher but it's a bit of a pain and quite uneven). Leave it simmering gently with the lid off.
(vi) fry lardon until crispy then turn into the soup, with its fat, and stir through (same if using mushroom). If one is going down the anchovy route, stir little anchovy fillets into soup for a minute or two until it disolves.
(vii) serve in big bowls with a dollop of cream or creme fraiche.
Thursday, 12 November 2009
All A Little Bit Much [sigh]
Thursday
Am most definitely feeling the social effects of becoming a pregnant person. Apart from the fact that all I really want is to stay home and make the house look nicer (which reduces me to tears as I can't face the enormity of it and don't know where to start - can't decide if it's the hormones, the clutter everywhere or terminal untidiness), I can't face looking in the mirror at my rapidly expanding waistline and diminishing wardrobe of credit crunched drabness (the untrimmed bush and legs don't help but thankfully it's nearly winter so they're under wraps adding an extra layer of warmth). Even the newly Jordan style cleavage isn't making me bouncy. The last thing I want to do is be out and about with lovely young things looking perky and happy. Normally I would console myself with a nice little item from the boutique or new designer lipstick and severalbottles glasses of red wine to detract from my other shortcomings, but unfortunately the recently replaced toilet is the only flushed thing around here and I'm responsible for an unborn child's life, so no little perk me up gifts for me.
So every time there's a suggestion of somewhere we could go, like a couple of tatty old bag people accepting the crumbs of social acceptance with a glass of apple juice in hand and blinking at the bright lights of Shoreditch (I think the hormones are sending me into a terminal drama queen too), I decline and would rather stay home writing my blog, stroking my pussy(cat) and watching The Family on the telly. Last night's episode introduce us to the heavily pregnant Kaki and her beer swilling Bollywood actor husband Jeet. Both Mr Singh and I gasped as Kaki and Jeet started talking to and about each other,
Jeet: "She always knows when I've had a drink.... I don't know how"
Kaki: "I'm not going, no, you can't make me, I don't want to. Go on your own"
Kaki: "You've been drinking, haven't you?"
Jeet: "But I only had one beer"
Jeet: "You treat me like a dog"
Jeet: "You're a little bit too dramatic"
A vague sense of deja-vu took over as we realised we had actually said all these things and awkward laughter escaped from our mouths. Was not so impressed when Aunty Boo said she felt sorry for Jeet by the end of the show, though we did agree that it might not have been appropriate for Jeet to be showing his toddler child films with him shooting people and killing a small child. Still, Mr Singh is not a Bollywood actor, unlike Jeet who 'starred' alongside Shiney Ahuja, a rising star of Indian film and dashing looking chap, currently on bail and accused of raping his maid one Sunday afternoon whilst the Missus was away with the kids (a clear case of life immitating Bollywood, nahin?). In fact, Mr Singh doesn't really like Bollywood, although he is a filmmaker. His taste is for something altogether grittier than the average Bollywood number with a penchant for Punjab and esoteric themes (though Shiney & Jeet's 'Gangster' film was actually rather good despite the ubiquitous musical numbers).
So, Mr Singh's attempts to get me out of the house this evening fell upon deaf ears, and I skulked about complaining in a slightly pathetic and wobbly bottom lip kind of a way, until I took pity on his desire not to be stuck at home with Kaki's understudy and decided to try to shake myself out of the doldrums, put on some mascara and a breast-revealing outfit to catch the 149 bus to the crazy urban jungle of Shoreditch. By the time I'd come away from the laptop ready to shuffle my way upstairs and into a transformation, Mr Singh was stroking and kissing the cat folornly and declaring it was too rainy outside and that he didn't want to go now. 'But I thought we were going now? Are you sure you don't want to?' to which Mr Singh's response was to open the front door, stand outside, come back in, declare it 'definitely too rainy' and to lie on the sofa with a sigh and a hand across his forehead declaring another lost evening at just 8:30pm, and all because I didn't want to go and didn't want him to go, so he didn't want to go because he got my vibe. I explained that I had told him to go, had said I'd go with him, that there was no vibe, he should have just gone anyway, and that anyway he had changed his mind after standing outside in the rain, which he denied doing so I explained that he actually went into both the back and the front garden to check out the rain, but he was having none of it and pulled his beige cashmere hat down low over his eyes and stuck his bottom lip out (now who's suffering from being 'a little bit too dramatic'?).
So here I am, blog completed for the day, cat trying to stay invisible to avoid teary cuddling and manic stroking, and Mr Singh tucked away upstairs cursing me for stopping him go for a drink, with nothing on the TV except bright young things that will remind me of my expanding waistline and inability to drink the red wine that would normally dull the ache of premature social irrelevance. Time for the cocoa and a nice hot bath, I reckon - might as well enjoy the perks of the onset of middle age.
Am most definitely feeling the social effects of becoming a pregnant person. Apart from the fact that all I really want is to stay home and make the house look nicer (which reduces me to tears as I can't face the enormity of it and don't know where to start - can't decide if it's the hormones, the clutter everywhere or terminal untidiness), I can't face looking in the mirror at my rapidly expanding waistline and diminishing wardrobe of credit crunched drabness (the untrimmed bush and legs don't help but thankfully it's nearly winter so they're under wraps adding an extra layer of warmth). Even the newly Jordan style cleavage isn't making me bouncy. The last thing I want to do is be out and about with lovely young things looking perky and happy. Normally I would console myself with a nice little item from the boutique or new designer lipstick and several
So every time there's a suggestion of somewhere we could go, like a couple of tatty old bag people accepting the crumbs of social acceptance with a glass of apple juice in hand and blinking at the bright lights of Shoreditch (I think the hormones are sending me into a terminal drama queen too), I decline and would rather stay home writing my blog, stroking my pussy(cat) and watching The Family on the telly. Last night's episode introduce us to the heavily pregnant Kaki and her beer swilling Bollywood actor husband Jeet. Both Mr Singh and I gasped as Kaki and Jeet started talking to and about each other,
Jeet: "She always knows when I've had a drink.... I don't know how"
Kaki: "I'm not going, no, you can't make me, I don't want to. Go on your own"
Kaki: "You've been drinking, haven't you?"
Jeet: "But I only had one beer"
Jeet: "You treat me like a dog"
Jeet: "You're a little bit too dramatic"
A vague sense of deja-vu took over as we realised we had actually said all these things and awkward laughter escaped from our mouths. Was not so impressed when Aunty Boo said she felt sorry for Jeet by the end of the show, though we did agree that it might not have been appropriate for Jeet to be showing his toddler child films with him shooting people and killing a small child. Still, Mr Singh is not a Bollywood actor, unlike Jeet who 'starred' alongside Shiney Ahuja, a rising star of Indian film and dashing looking chap, currently on bail and accused of raping his maid one Sunday afternoon whilst the Missus was away with the kids (a clear case of life immitating Bollywood, nahin?). In fact, Mr Singh doesn't really like Bollywood, although he is a filmmaker. His taste is for something altogether grittier than the average Bollywood number with a penchant for Punjab and esoteric themes (though Shiney & Jeet's 'Gangster' film was actually rather good despite the ubiquitous musical numbers).
So, Mr Singh's attempts to get me out of the house this evening fell upon deaf ears, and I skulked about complaining in a slightly pathetic and wobbly bottom lip kind of a way, until I took pity on his desire not to be stuck at home with Kaki's understudy and decided to try to shake myself out of the doldrums, put on some mascara and a breast-revealing outfit to catch the 149 bus to the crazy urban jungle of Shoreditch. By the time I'd come away from the laptop ready to shuffle my way upstairs and into a transformation, Mr Singh was stroking and kissing the cat folornly and declaring it was too rainy outside and that he didn't want to go now. 'But I thought we were going now? Are you sure you don't want to?' to which Mr Singh's response was to open the front door, stand outside, come back in, declare it 'definitely too rainy' and to lie on the sofa with a sigh and a hand across his forehead declaring another lost evening at just 8:30pm, and all because I didn't want to go and didn't want him to go, so he didn't want to go because he got my vibe. I explained that I had told him to go, had said I'd go with him, that there was no vibe, he should have just gone anyway, and that anyway he had changed his mind after standing outside in the rain, which he denied doing so I explained that he actually went into both the back and the front garden to check out the rain, but he was having none of it and pulled his beige cashmere hat down low over his eyes and stuck his bottom lip out (now who's suffering from being 'a little bit too dramatic'?).
So here I am, blog completed for the day, cat trying to stay invisible to avoid teary cuddling and manic stroking, and Mr Singh tucked away upstairs cursing me for stopping him go for a drink, with nothing on the TV except bright young things that will remind me of my expanding waistline and inability to drink the red wine that would normally dull the ache of premature social irrelevance. Time for the cocoa and a nice hot bath, I reckon - might as well enjoy the perks of the onset of middle age.
Monday, 9 November 2009
Jumping Through Hoops
Sunday
Last week wasn't a good one. Apart from feeling depressed through financial near-failure and as attractive as an overweight churchwarden, I was unable to think of anything witty to say and my one foray that dipped a toe into mentioning Mr Singh's libido provoked such a response (ironic considering he never normally reads what I write), I deemed it better to delete-all and come back fresh this week.
Most interesting news last week for us pregnant types was the blog of Penelope Trunk, the career bloggist who twittered her way through a miscarriage (http://blog.penelopetrunk.com). The following furore showed how little progress we've made in the last 20+ years. Miscarriage, one of those things I've been dreading since the stick went pink and 'we' became pregnant, is little discussed beyond the physical elements (thanks NHS Direct) and usually mentioned in hushed tones by sympathetic family and acquaintances. Yet it leaves many women (and men) completely distraught and (as with death) there's no guidelines to dealing with it. The other point is that women are still (and mainly by other women) expected to all make giving birth and raising children as their number one objective in life, and anyone who says differently is considered unnaturally cold or lying. The fact is that we don't HAVE to want to have children - and the beauty of the last century of so-called feminism is surely to give women the freedom to choose the tyranny of children or otherwise. The result was that a woman who publically announced her miscarriage as a welcome event that solved a problem pregnancy and saved her from queuing for an abortion (that spectre of the religious Right) caused an international outcry and propelled her to the headlines of every newspaper and nightly news broadcast across the world.
In my own pregnancy, things appear to (thankfully) be going pretty well. Singhlette has been very active, jumping its way around my stomach with the energy of a hyperactive child with a belly full of sugar. Singhlette was good enough to hold still for both my mum and Aunty Boo to cop a feel, induce indigestion (or so I thought until the indigestion moved all the way around my rib cage and intestine with the feeling of a small foot kicking repeatedly) and even carried on long enough for Mr Singh to feel his offspring headbutt his hand at the bus stop. I couldn't work out what had caused this extended period of activity - a quick shopping trip to Bicester shopping centre on the way home from visiting my Grandma (Singhlette's great-Grandma) certainly got me excited (hey - the frist two bras to actually fit in as many months with the added delight of having jumped from a paltry 34B to a 36D of cleavage loveliness), but I didn't think that checking out half price Dior handbags and eveningwear would do quite the same for my unborn child (if it did, then it looks like we're giving birth to Paris Hilton or Alexander McQueen).
Then as I lay on the sofa recovering from the nutrients and reserves the little blighter had zapped from me during its olympic tumbling, Aunty Boo phoned with the answer. Friday morning with my 3-monthly vitamin B12 shot, the much needed energy booster for someone such as myself who is too pitiful to digest it normally. But it's the first such shot since becoming pregnant and if it can transform me from being a tearful lump unable to move even to reach for the biscuits, imagine what it must be doing for my unborn child. So basically the child is a like a doped sprinter, breaking the world record for ante-natal tumbling only to be discovered not as a genius gift of nature but as a drug addled cheat who was stung by his own mother.
Last week wasn't a good one. Apart from feeling depressed through financial near-failure and as attractive as an overweight churchwarden, I was unable to think of anything witty to say and my one foray that dipped a toe into mentioning Mr Singh's libido provoked such a response (ironic considering he never normally reads what I write), I deemed it better to delete-all and come back fresh this week.
Most interesting news last week for us pregnant types was the blog of Penelope Trunk, the career bloggist who twittered her way through a miscarriage (http://blog.penelopetrunk.com). The following furore showed how little progress we've made in the last 20+ years. Miscarriage, one of those things I've been dreading since the stick went pink and 'we' became pregnant, is little discussed beyond the physical elements (thanks NHS Direct) and usually mentioned in hushed tones by sympathetic family and acquaintances. Yet it leaves many women (and men) completely distraught and (as with death) there's no guidelines to dealing with it. The other point is that women are still (and mainly by other women) expected to all make giving birth and raising children as their number one objective in life, and anyone who says differently is considered unnaturally cold or lying. The fact is that we don't HAVE to want to have children - and the beauty of the last century of so-called feminism is surely to give women the freedom to choose the tyranny of children or otherwise. The result was that a woman who publically announced her miscarriage as a welcome event that solved a problem pregnancy and saved her from queuing for an abortion (that spectre of the religious Right) caused an international outcry and propelled her to the headlines of every newspaper and nightly news broadcast across the world.
In my own pregnancy, things appear to (thankfully) be going pretty well. Singhlette has been very active, jumping its way around my stomach with the energy of a hyperactive child with a belly full of sugar. Singhlette was good enough to hold still for both my mum and Aunty Boo to cop a feel, induce indigestion (or so I thought until the indigestion moved all the way around my rib cage and intestine with the feeling of a small foot kicking repeatedly) and even carried on long enough for Mr Singh to feel his offspring headbutt his hand at the bus stop. I couldn't work out what had caused this extended period of activity - a quick shopping trip to Bicester shopping centre on the way home from visiting my Grandma (Singhlette's great-Grandma) certainly got me excited (hey - the frist two bras to actually fit in as many months with the added delight of having jumped from a paltry 34B to a 36D of cleavage loveliness), but I didn't think that checking out half price Dior handbags and eveningwear would do quite the same for my unborn child (if it did, then it looks like we're giving birth to Paris Hilton or Alexander McQueen).
Then as I lay on the sofa recovering from the nutrients and reserves the little blighter had zapped from me during its olympic tumbling, Aunty Boo phoned with the answer. Friday morning with my 3-monthly vitamin B12 shot, the much needed energy booster for someone such as myself who is too pitiful to digest it normally. But it's the first such shot since becoming pregnant and if it can transform me from being a tearful lump unable to move even to reach for the biscuits, imagine what it must be doing for my unborn child. So basically the child is a like a doped sprinter, breaking the world record for ante-natal tumbling only to be discovered not as a genius gift of nature but as a drug addled cheat who was stung by his own mother.
Tuesday, 3 November 2009
Space Cadets and Sky High Prices
Delighted to read that the galaxy's first space hotel is on track to open in 2012. The Barcelona based company Galatic Suite (www.galacticsuite.com) is taking initial bookings for three day mini-breaks on their state of the art space hotel. Visitors will be assigned their own pod and issued with a velcro suit with which 'to climb the pod walls' - the irony of that statement may have been lost on the press officer responsible for that release, it's not like there's much to do up there and I guess once you've seen the first half a dozen sunrises occuring on an 80 minute cycle, the novelty must wear off somewhat. Still, for the bargain price of £2.76m it's a must for all those bankers with a big wedge of bonus and nothing to spend it on this winter, though I doubt we'll be seeing this on lastminute.com for some time yet
The other big transport story of the day is Britain's first £1000 rail ticket, as reported in the Daily Mail, Independent, BBC and The Sun meaning the full spectrum of voters and media consumers have been disgusted in equal measure but with varying numbers of syllables and linguistic complexity. Knowing as we do the calibre of Britain's railways, it does beg the question of how this figure has been reached (and justified) not least when one considers that a return Upper Class seat with Virgin Atlantic from London to New York can be purchased for just a couple of hundred pounds more, and that includes free champagne, beauty treatments at the airport lounge plus a chauffeur driven limo at both ends. Still, perhaps the press officer involved in this space odyessy was slightly less of a space cadet than the Galactic Suite's communications guru (though no doubt of the same alumni) when announcing "No-one has actually bought this £1,000 fare but it does exist. Someone wanting a first-class return would be likely to book a saver return in advance and pay £561." Does this include transfers to the Space Centre?
Our very own little space cadet, Singhlette, has been continuing its earth shattering journey. Yesterday, I felt it move for the very first time, a surreal and vaguely nauseating sensation as it somersaulted its way around my uterus and marked its presence quite clearly. It's also beginning to make itself shown more as it pushes its little bottom (or head or whichever other part its moving) into the foreground causing my otherwise only marginally rounded tummy to protrude quite definitely. I feel we have reached a new stage in our relationship and it surprised me as much as £1002 bill for a delayed journey from one deserted rural station to another.
The other big transport story of the day is Britain's first £1000 rail ticket, as reported in the Daily Mail, Independent, BBC and The Sun meaning the full spectrum of voters and media consumers have been disgusted in equal measure but with varying numbers of syllables and linguistic complexity. Knowing as we do the calibre of Britain's railways, it does beg the question of how this figure has been reached (and justified) not least when one considers that a return Upper Class seat with Virgin Atlantic from London to New York can be purchased for just a couple of hundred pounds more, and that includes free champagne, beauty treatments at the airport lounge plus a chauffeur driven limo at both ends. Still, perhaps the press officer involved in this space odyessy was slightly less of a space cadet than the Galactic Suite's communications guru (though no doubt of the same alumni) when announcing "No-one has actually bought this £1,000 fare but it does exist. Someone wanting a first-class return would be likely to book a saver return in advance and pay £561." Does this include transfers to the Space Centre?
Our very own little space cadet, Singhlette, has been continuing its earth shattering journey. Yesterday, I felt it move for the very first time, a surreal and vaguely nauseating sensation as it somersaulted its way around my uterus and marked its presence quite clearly. It's also beginning to make itself shown more as it pushes its little bottom (or head or whichever other part its moving) into the foreground causing my otherwise only marginally rounded tummy to protrude quite definitely. I feel we have reached a new stage in our relationship and it surprised me as much as £1002 bill for a delayed journey from one deserted rural station to another.
Friday, 30 October 2009
Young Love
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.
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.
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