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).