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Well here we are… 26, September 2012

Posted by babychaos in General Wittering, Mum, not while you're eating.
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Yeh there’s a bit of a gap isn’t there, but this blog gets hundreds of hits a day so I thought I’d come back and see what you’re all reading. 10 songs, it seems.

McMini is now 4 years old. He has started school. Today he stuffed pasta in his ear and I had to take him to hospital. The pasta worked its way towards the surface while we were waiting and was removed by the nurse.

As we waited to go in we had this conversation.

McMini. “I won’t want to eat the pasta when it comes out. ”

BC. “No, I can imagine.”

McMini. “Yes, it would be covered in earwax and it would taste yucky.”

Anonymous woman with daughter with PE injury next to BC chimes in. “Very sensible, we all know how horrible earwax tastes.”

We all laughed.

It was almost upbeat in there, nearly all kids, nearly all injured in PE, arms, legs etc. Nearly all of them with parents who were just thankful it wasn’t any worse. It made it much easier to contain McMini and considering we were waiting to see a doctor for a couple of hours it was almost fun. Some git had practically wrenched the wing mirror off my car but it seems to have been designed for that as I was able to put it back. Quite glad as it only has 100 miles on the clock and it would be a pity to break it before I’ve even finished running it in.

When Mr BC arrived home, I told him what had happened – not the car, the other bit. He guffawed and said, “he’s definitely YOUR son.”

Cheeky. True, but still cheeky.


I’m talking ’bout things… 15, May 2010

Posted by babychaos in baby stuff, General Wittering, Mini Me, Mom, Mum, not while you're eating, toddlers.
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I went car booting today, arrived home and mini-me runs into the garage with his daddy.

“Hello gorgeous!” I say.

“Hello Muggie!” He replies. Two words together. Yes, as of this morning we are doing phrases, with consistency I mean because phrases are what he did first (a two off “I dat” and “I go la” at 9 months then a one off  “no mummy, I get this today” at 13 months or so which was the time he started saying the odd word).

His cognative skills are better too.

He also has a hissy fit if I…

  • Shut a door without letting him do it for
  • Flush the loo myself.
  • Help myself to loo paper – I MUST allow him to remove it from the roll and hand it to me in tiny pieces or, if I’m lucky, sheet by sheet.

I’ve probably psychologically scarred him for life using a menstrual cup in his presence but very possibly slightly less than if I’d shut him out in the hall while I did it, judging by the yelling that goes on if I do.

Finally, I’ve published ANOTHER e-short which you can find here it’s also on Feedbooks if you prefer. Blurb below, enjoy.

They Came, They Saw, They Took the Tinfoil.

Gerry wakes up in in a bath full of cold water in her interview suit and best shoes. How did she get there? How did she sleep and why is there nothing aluminium left in the flat? Her flatmate Jane wants a shower, her other flatmate, Nina, is looking for her saucepans but Gerry… she just wants answers. British English, a bit of light swearing U/PG

The Labour Story… at long last 1, July 2008

Posted by babychaos in Adult Content, complete freak out, General Wittering, Heavy Flow, Life and living, not while you're eating, Pregnancy Issues.
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I’m going to tell you the story of my labour… it might not be a good idea in some ways but in others, it gets it out of my head. It’s pretty ordinary, nothing major happened, it just seems a good idea to write an account. I wrote the first bit on my first night in hospital… the rest is written now.

The day comes… We ring at 6.30 as asked. “Oh yes!” They say. “We’re not that busy. Can you be here by 8?”

Ooo… So much for going in at about 2.00pm.

“No.” I say. “Not in rush hour – and I haven’t had a shower yet – but we’ll be as quick as we can.”

“No problem, we’ll be waiting. Come as close to 8 as you can.” They tell me.

In the car I broach the tricky subject; that a baby might change our relationship, that initially Mr BC might feel marginalised by my constant attention to Mini BC. That we might feel estranged from one another as we adjust to life with the baby.

“But that’s other people. We’ll cope. We always do.” He says and I love him more at that moment than perhaps I ever have.

We make it to hospital by 8.15. Not bad. On arrival we are shown to our room and we meet our midwife. She amuses me by telling me she only works nights usually because there are less interfering doctors. I am relaxed at once, I know she will protect me.

She does an internal examination, which is grim, before putting some telemetry equipment on me – they call it a trace but it’s all datalogging. It monitors the baby’s heart beat and movements. He’s a busy little blighter this morning so I feed him a granola bar in case he is hungry. My cervix is lower than they expect and a scan reveals he is finally engaged, hoorah! No C section!

I meet the Registrar, another very sympathetic person who is very laid back and friendly. I take to her at once – if anything does go wrong I feel safe in her care, too. Oh good. She clearly trusts my midwife, who is called Anita, to do her job and leaves her to it.

I am given a hormone pessary to soften and open my cervix. In six hour’s time, we’ll find out if it’s worked. If not, we’ll try again. After that we’ll have to wait 24 hours before we put any more pessaries in so they’ll probably break my waters.

It’s 10am. It’s hot in the room and so, since it’s a lovely day, we go for a wander. We sit on a seat in the grounds where I play patience on my iPaq and he gets his lap top out and does a little work. We talk about nothing much, enjoying our friendship and the pleasure of each other’s company. Simple, unassuming time spent together. The best.

Finally we return to my room for a spot of lunch. Here are some sandwiches he made earlier. We giggle at my name tag which notes my patient number, name, date of birth, NHS number and hugely amusingly (to us) gender. Just in case there’s any confusion, me being here to give birth and all. Well… I suppose a bloke who bumped into me at a car boot the other day did say “sorry sonny”. I think he was a little shocked when I turned round… I mean it’s not just the trucker paunch is it, there are boobs.

We applaud the wisdom of our decision to return when the midwife nips in – she’s clearly been keeping an eye out for our return. A brief check and off we go to the garden again. We walk down the cycle path to the railway line and back. Yes, I am feeling it now. Not contractions exactly – still pathetic period pains – but stronger.

Back at 3.30 for another internal. She offers me gas and air. I refuse and regret it. It’s far grimmer than a contraction because you can’t manage it in the same way, even though it’s less painful. My cervix is further forward now, softening, dilating and she can put one finger through and feel the baby’s head. Another pessary and we will have to wait until 11pm to find out more. Good. With any luck they will leave me to it at that time of night and let me sleep so the two of us are fighting fit in the morning.

We ascertain that I will be fed and Mr BC prepares to go home.

He writes a list of the things I’ve forgotten or he thinks I may need. Then he finds out if I can use my phone. I can but not the ward. I kiss him goodbye and tell him to drive carefully.

“Of course! Push hard!” He says. Idiot! I kiss him and he is gone.

He’s coming back after supper but the hormone pessaries are clearly working as a little piece of me seems to go with him. I almost weep. I watch the road outside to see his car drive past. When it finally does I wonder if he can see me up here in the window or if he has worked out which room is mine. I can’t see his face but he slows down for a speed bump so I have time to rush out of bed put my face to the glass and blow a kiss at the receding form of the car as it disappears round the corner.

I look at my watch. Half past five. He’ll never make it home and back by half past seven. I lie back and realise I know bugger all about the process of having an induction – I seem to have read up extensively on caesarian section and not much else. Plank. Never mind, luckily my NCT booklet has a birth story from someone whose had one. I make a mental note to show it to Mr BC when he comes back. At 10pm he goes home to bed. I’m beginning to have contractions so to distract myself from his absence, I time them.


Over night I have strong regular contractions. The midwife tells me to lie on my side as this will encourage the baby to move down and keep the contractions coming. Then before she goes off duty she introduces me to her replacement, he is as camp as a row of pink tents with an outrageous accent. Spanish? Portuguese? Possibly Romanian. I’m not sure. He’s a lovely chap and again, I feel safe in his care.


I turn the light out and despite toying with the idea of applying the tens machine decide not to. The pain is fairly major, like it was when I had my miscarriage but blessing the toughening up caused by a history of unspeakable periods I still manage to sleep.

In the morning I wake at 5 am and go to the loo. The contractions have stopped.


I don’t want the hormone drip, it’ll make me all weepy and lu-lu… and like as not it will also make me hurl.

Pink Tents has been called away to Theatre so another midwife comes in to see me, Villa (I’m ashamed to say I’ve no idea how to spell her name but it is pronounced like that) puts a Valflow or is it a Canula in my hand, it’s a bit big and a double decker as it has to accommodate the hormone drip and the antibiotics – I have group B strep so need to have antibiotics administered every four hours throughout labour. She explains that they are going to break my waters at six am.

“Six am! Goddammit! Can’t it wait until my husband gets here?”

She tells me she recommends not calling my husband and since I can’t while I’m hooked up to the telemetry machine because mobiles aren’t allowed on the ward, I have no choice anyway. She gives me another sodding internal which is just as agonising as the others.

“Nope. I’m not even going to attempt that.” She says and hurries off to get the surgeon on duty. He is called Tom and I explain that internals fucking smart and that I want my husband with me before he does anything. He says that isn’t possible but offers me gas and air. I am diverted by the fact it makes the same noise as Darth Vader when I breathe. Yes it takes the edge off but it’s still excruchiating. For all that, he is very quick and clearly trying to make the process as pain free as possible.

I never find out why they have to break my waters at 6 am and why I am not allowed to call my husband when the decision is made to do so. He would have arrived by the time they did it anyway. A few minutes after they’ve finished he does. I lie in a huge pool of red gloop. My waters are the right colour but this is pink actually, not the clear I’ve been led to believe.

Villa comes and says goodbye, she is going off duty and her replacement – a lovely woman whose name has completely slipped my mind I’m ashamed to say – comes and introduces herself just as Mr BC arrives. She tells me she thinks they were mean not to let me call Mr BC in early and even meaner to break my waters before he arrives. Never mind, I forget it all when I discover he has brought coffee, knowing as he does that the coffee in hospitals is often indistinguishable from the tea and that both tend to suck royally. God I love this man! I want to have his children… ah yes, it seems I am.

We are told we are free to go for a walk but must be back by 10am to start the syntonoxin (is it) hormone, anyway, drip. I don’t want to start the hormone drip. It makes most people hurl and as somebody who tends to hurl more than most people, the outcome is inevitable – not to mention reports of hormonal weepiness.

I explain this to my new midwife and she tells us that obviously, if we aren’t back, she won’t be able to start the drip. We do come back though and sure enough she plugs me in. I get my first shot of antibiotics, too. Shortly after that I start to experience contractions.

I’m hooked up to the telemetry machine and I sit on a birthing ball, wearing my tens machine. Tens is great, that tingling is very relaxing, I should imagine it’s even relaxing when you’re not in pain. I’m glad I bought rather than hired it as I can see myself using it later. The consultant pops in with the nice registrar I met yesterday. They have come to regard me as the woman with a sense of humour so he gently ribs me and tells me he hopes I won’t be bothering him by causing him any work to do later.

“Not if I can bloody well help it!” I tell him. They laugh about my birth plan – which was written with an eye on amusing them. Let’s face it, the general public can be complete cunts but when they are frightened and concerned they must be totally grim, ergo, I feel I should do my best to amuse and give them a break from the usual. They like the line about my “husband-shaped birth partner” but also something about plopping the baby on me before they clean him because I’ll be covered in gunk anyway and a bit more is hardly going to make a difference.

It’s now about half ten and the midwife tells us the hormones may make me sick, as if I didn’t know, she recommends I eat as much as I can now as I will have to go the rest of my labour with just water. I serial – or should that be cereal – trough muselie bars and drink a couple of pints of water. After 40 minutes they promise me they will remove the telemetry stuff and I’ll be able to walk about.


The telemetry is problematic, though. We seem unable to get 40 minutes of full on trace, it keeps picking up my heart beat instead of the baby’s. It’s a pain because until we do I will be stuck on this machine. After two hours the midwife begins to wonder if the trace is correct and the baby’s heart rate is dropping. This would be the case if the cord is trapped somewhere. We will wait a little and see if it frees itself, as it often does, if not she will get the consultant.

She goes to lunch and Anita comes back. Now I feel safe because I know she’ll protect me. She looks at the trace and me and says she thinks it’s definitely the baby’s heart beat which is dropping. Soon my allotted midwife comes back. They discuss it. Anita is clearly very knowledgeable – I noticed even the Registrar deferred to her the previous day – and my midwife seeks her advice. Is it the baby or a dodgy trace only, she reckons it might be the baby? Anita is pretty sure it’s the baby. Ok, do we think it will rectify itself. Hmm… not sure. They change my position, I must lie on the bed. I am not pleased, I may have a couple of day’s labour ahead of me without food and gravity is no longer my friend.

They leave me alone for a minute or two, the heart beat speeds up, drops and then stops for two or three long, heart stopping seconds. I know, now, this is not my heart. It’s his.


Mr BC and I exchange glances. He smiles to reassure me. Nothing is said but his eyes tell me he is as worried as I am.

Suddenly it starts again at about 200bpm as the pain of the contraction recedes. It drops back to 134, which is where it’s been between contractions all along. Time to see how I’m doing. Right now the baby is fine, the rest of the trace if excellent but they need to gauge how long the labour is going to be.

Another internal. I’m about 3 cm dilated and Anita can feel the baby’s head but nothing else. Not a prolapsed cord then. Time to get the surgeon on duty. Also time for Anita to leave, the midwife’s lunch is over, not that she took much of it, bless her, so Anita wishes me luck and goes.

The surgeon called and the midwife comes back and explains that there is a chance I will end up having a caesarian. I’m not surprised and Mr BC and I agree we’d rather now than after 30 hours of labour.

The surgeon is the Registrar, the woman from yesterday. Result.

To belt and brace she suggests we put a sensor on the baby’s head and we turn down the hormone levels.

Marvellous. Less hormones, good but yet another fucking internal. Very bad. Mr BC holds my hand.

They do the internal and stick the probe on Muffin’s head. I can feel it moving as his head moves and am not remotely surprised when it falls off immediately. Luckily they’re still delving about inside me. They put it on a second time and it falls off again almost at once but not until they’ve removed their hands and got the rubber gloves off.

Wank! They’re going to put on another one. More internal delvings. Never mind, my dignity is long gone and has left no forwarding address. Even so, I lose my rag and start to cry. I don’t want another internal and I tell them. It hurts and it’s not manageable like the contractions. They give me more gas and air. It takes me a while to work out what the matter is and at this stage I have no idea why I’m crying.

The probe stays on for 20 minutes and then falls off again. However, we now have enough trace to know that it’s Muffin’s heart that’s fluctuating. The cord is definitely trapped somewhere but he’s doing fine right now. Ok for a short labour but not for a long one. Finally I understand why I cried and am able to explain. I am thinking about the one I lost, the little girl and I don’t think I can bear to lose one at this stage. I tell them it’s the syntonoxin messing with my ass and not to worry. The Registrar leaves to get the consultant.

While they are gone the Midwife cues us up for the next stage – they’ll try to do a gas test, that is, take blood from the baby’s head to check the levels of oxygen. If they’re ok, we’ll carry on with labour, if they’re not, it’s a c for me. She is not sure but suspects I am not dilated enough to be able to do the gas test.

The Registrar comes back with the jolly Scottish Consultant who is wearing slightly stained greens.

“I thought I told you not to pester me today.” He says cheerfully.

“Ah yes, but I’ve never been one to do as I’m told.” I tell him. I have regained my sense of humour by this time, mainly because I’m pretty sure I will not be having a c which means I will not be having another internal. We all laugh and then he tells me he is going to leave me in the capable hands of the Registrar. She goes out with him and once again the midwife cues up our expectations. She tells us she reckons a c is definitely on the cards. Sure enough a few moments later the Registrar returns.

She explains that Muffin’s levels are those of a baby coping admirably but that it’s likely to be a long labour and she doesn’t have the option of doing a gas test. That being the case although there is nothing to suggest there is a long term serious problem if this is the “nought point nought nought 1 percent where something is wrong” we need to rescue the little chap. That means a c of which she has done about 400 so not to worry. What do I think?

I think fine. She clearly has a hunch that something is wrong, despite the lack of medical evidence to back it up and since I do too, I’m ok with that. Mr BC exchange glances and he nods, yep he’s thinking the same.


We sign the consent form and suddenly everything gets very fast and very urgent. They rush me, yes they are walking VERY briskly – almost running – to theatre and I suddenly realise this isn’t going to be like one of my knee ops where the process of getting you to theatre is quite measured and takes an hour or so. they wheel me straight into the operating theatre. There is music playing, female lead ballads from Andrew Lloyd Webber. I sit on the edge of the bed and am given a spinal, in about three minutes I am on the… um what do you call that? Slab? Yes, slab. The bloody syntonoxin kicks in and I start to cry, not sobs and my mind is perfectly clear. I’m just kind of… leaking. I am also shaking uncontrollably.

Shock I guess.

The anaesthitist sprays me with cold water, can I feel the coldness? No just the water.

Good, we’re ready.

Shit! Where’s Mr BC? Ah here he is, all greened up with a red hat on so nobody hands him anything.

He holds my hand but the slab is tilted away from him and I can’t see his face. I am breathing in gasps and can feel nothing from the boobs down… well I’m not too concerned about that! I’d rather not feel anything but I hate the shock and the worry they have put a screen in front of my face but I can see the lights, despite my shaking sobbing body my mind is very calm. I am looking at the lights and thinking.

“Bloody hell! Next time I’m having a fucking general!”

They make the first incision, the song playing has finished.

“Tell me on a Sunday, please…” Sings Eileen Page or somebody. I will never feel quite the same way about Andrew Lloyd Webber ever again, even if my Dad did used to teach Tim Rice.

The anesthatist realises that I can only feel my husband’s hand but can’t see him, she leans over, makes eye contact and talks to me. I want to say something funny to reassure her but my sense of humour seems to have fallen off the trolly somewhere in one of those anonymous hospital corridors on the journey down.

They are opening me up, I know they will cut the skin and then tear, I tell Mr BC not to look but it’s too late. He tells me later that he watched that and then decided to watch my face for the rest. He holds my hand and almost immediately I hear the sound of a baby cry.

I start to laugh, except with the shock and the continuing tears what comes out is great gasping sobs. I’ve had a baby and he’s not dead even thought the reason he didn’t engage until right at the end was because the cord was wrapped tightly round his neck. Hoorah! It’s 3.07pm and I reckon I probably signed the consent form about 8 minutes ago. When can I go home? I ask as they sew me up.

Not for a couple of days…


They do the gas test immediately. Everything is fine, the oxygen levels are excellent. Thank god. There’s a bit of rummaging inside me, a bit of a farty noise while they squeeze the air out of my body cavity and sew me up. Now they’re ready to wheel me out. The whole thing, start to finish, has only taken three or four Lloyd Webber Songs. I wish they were playing 1960s RnB like the bunch who did my knee.

I think they hand him to Mr BC while I am sewn up or maybe he goes away to change. The next thing I know I’m in the recovery room. I feel like shit. Mr BC is with me, holding the baby. My sense of humour has reappeared. Good. I sleep and eventually after an attempt to breast feed which fails totally – nothing coming out – I am wheeled up to the ward and as I leave the team who cut me up are all there. I wave to the Registrar and thank her. “You made an excellent judgement call.” I also tell her. After all, it did save my son’s life. On the ward I still feel shit and try to eat, Immediately, I throw up. Oh how much better that feels.

Mr BC is still holding the baby. He is beautiful, fine blonde hair and dark blue eyes although he is sleeping, mostly. I am not allowed to lift him but it doesn’t matter it’s ok, we are parents of a healthy little boy.

The Muffin has landed.


It’s five days before we are allowed home, all the midwives who tended to me in the delivery ward visit me – Anita brings flowers. I am incredibly touched and grateful. Five days in hospital is always grim but these are five days which stood me in good stead.

My milk didn’t come in until the morning of the fifth day but all the time I was there they encouraged me to breast feed. It’s fucking difficult by the way. Don’t expect your little one to suckle like a pro and all to be peachy. You have to teach them. Having had to do that, I am even more impressed that the human race hasn’t died out.

I have huge tits and flat nipples and he is a tiny baby with a small mouth. It’s still not anywhere near there but we’ve nearly made it now and I’d have probably given up without the help, expertise and advice I received in those five days.

I leave you with some advice. Anyone reading this who does end up having an emergency c section, here are three things nobody tells you which I know I would have loved to have known first.

One, when they say “emergency” they mean it. That means the actual op is quite freaky – there’s no reason to be afraid but they get you down to the operating theatre quite quickly after you’ve signed the consent form and that urgency may throw you a bit – especially when they’re swabbing you down, giving you a spinal and having you on the table ready for opening in about 5 minutes flat – for me that was far more scary than the idea of what was about to happen and I think it was that sudden realisation of the urgency which put me into shock.

Two, I can’t lie to you, the first couple of days afterwards it will smart a tad – no it’ll smart like fuck but the good news is, the pain abates remarkably quickly.

Three, the thing that causes you the most pain on those first few days is not the fact you feel like you’ve been in collision with a freight train and sewn up with bailing twine – although that doesn’t help. It’s trapped wind. I kid you not. They don’t tell you this so when you get the first bout you think you’re going to die! It’s usually under your diaphragm which can cause referred pain in your right shoulder. Apparently this is standard and normal. They gave me some weird liquid which made me burp like the MGM lion and that cured the pain instantly. So um… if any of you have any doubts and think you might end up giving birth the way I did, pack your Deflatine!

Here ends the longest labour account in the world, ever!

Inducements… 6, June 2008

Posted by babychaos in Adult Content, General Wittering, Grumpy Old Bag, Life and living, not while you're eating, Pregnancy Issues, whinging, winging.
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Inducement booked for next Wednesday, 11th June. Difficult to explain how delighted I am that there is now a finite finish to this – it’ll be busy and I may not get in on 11th or 12th but I reckon I have to have managed it by Friday 13th.

So… though I’m glad it will finish by then, at the same time I’m not at all looking forward to the concept of being induced which has been given a pretty universal thumbs down – barring one, possibly the rule-proving, exception – from everyone who’s experienced it.

No matter. The one positive comment came from somebody whose first child was induced. This is my first child, it’s not as if I’m going to know if I have a horrific labour. I mean, I am in that it’s going to fucking smart but since I’ll have nothing to compare it to, I will only really know if I have another and the labour goes swimmingly. Yes. Perhaps, in this case, ignorance truly is bliss.

Had my hormones “done” by the reflexology lady today. This should help the braxton hicks and other things that will cause the little blighter to lock and load, at the least. It’s not going to do any harm, anyway, which is the important thing. She suggested I have a sleep afterwards which I did… for three hours! I have woken a human dynamo!

Ah let’s hope they work and he locks, loads and arrives naturally before I get induced.

On a lighter note. Here are some of the things I am looking forward to after the baby is born.

1. Being able to sleep (this afternoon excepted) for more than 40 minutes at a pop.

2. Being able to see my feet.

3. Having ankles.

4. Being able to wear my engagement ring.

5. Being able to climb the stairs without gasping for breath and going blue.

6. Only my boobs aching.

7. Being able to bend down and pick things up.

8. Meeting my little one at long last.

9. Gradually, over time, being able to wear a variety of clothes rather than the ever dwindling number of outfits I can currently cram myself into – at present; a pair of winter cords for cold days and a pair of cotton capri-pants for hot days neither of which stays up.

10. Cutting my toe nails for the first time.

11. Doing one firm stool per day.

12. Riding a bicycle.

13. Being able to run.

14. Being able to wear more than one pair of shoes.

15. Being able to wipe my arse in ease and comfort!

16. Being able to sleep on my back – possibly even my front.

17. Not weeing like it’s a national sport.

18. Being able to dry my feet without pain and breathlessness to the point of almost losing consciousness.

19. Not having reflux.

20. Not having sinus.

21. Being able to stand up long enough to have a shower or blow dry my hair without getting so tired I want to go back to bed again.

22. An end in sight to the SPD exercises!

In short. Not being pregnant!

Random trivia, a surprise day out, general wittering and some more things you never knew (or wanted to) about being pregnant… 21, May 2008

Posted by babychaos in Adult Content, General Wittering, Light Fluff, not while you're eating, Play, Pregnancy Issues.
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NB today’s post contains swearing and far too much information. The “not while you’re eating” and “adult content” tags are switched on.

This morning, pretty much on a whim, I went into town to get fitted for sleep and feeding bras at John Lewis. While I was there, I also managed to meet up with a friend I haven’t seen for ages and have lunch.

Good plan because it was the only day I could do in the next two weeks and after that we are getting into the don’t go anywhere where your waters breaking would be embarrassing zone. Ie, not into Cambridge by train. So a bonanza result all round.

John Lewis first, very kind helpful lady who did the calculations, based on my current 38G girth and it turns out that you should always buy a feeding bra one or two cup sizes larger then the one which fits you in week 38. We found a cup that fitted but it turns out you also go down a size round the chest, which makes the one cup size up into two, as cup sizes go up as your chest size goes down so the cups on a 34C, 36B and 38A are all the same size, and so on. In my case, as somebody who will drop to a 36 it means I will need… wait for it people… a 36K bra.


A K cup. The biggest you can get before you have to go up to the next back size and just… well… take a dart in it or something… or have them specially made.


She ordered both and said if they don’t fit when they arrive I’m to bring them back – no 28 day rule for new mums, she told me, they give us a lot of slack. Bless their hearts.

Well, bras ordered I had a thoroughly enjoyable lunch, people watching and chatting with with my friend and then we went our separate ways, I to M&S to buy some new, pleasant post pregnancy pants… he back to work.

My M&S mission complete I decided I wasn’t sure I believed the woman in John Lewis about the K cups but since I’d let her order one anyway I headed off to the Huge Breasted Lady Shop (or Bravissimo, as it is sometimes called) to see if they had one I could actually try on.

They did.

The assistant came out of the back room with something so huge you could use it to kite surf. It was like some kind of double spinnaker, you know, for a really BIG ship. You could put a large savoy cabbage into each cup. You could pack it for a round the world trip. It’s so huge that when I was in the cubicle trying it on I got the giggles… They must have thought I was completely mad as I was practically crying with laughter by the time I came out of there and I was ON MY OWN!

The scariest thing of all though is, it fits exactly the way it should, ie with a little room for expansion and a pair of breast pads.

Hmm… It’s all very strange. They don’t really feel or look that much bigger than they were before, except at aqua natal when they bob to the surface and look alarmingly football like. But then I suppose the huge stomach ameliorates the impact. I should have realised I guess.

Needless to say I had to find a disabled loo after lunch and do another enormous pooh! Oh how I long for the day when I merely face the prospect of doing a normal sized pooh once or perhaps twice instead of producing a seemingly inexhaustible supply of giant cow pats every couple of hours, often into double figures…

I can’t understand where it all comes from. It’s not like I’m eating that much more… and… I know I probably shouldn’t go there but… what the heck, I’m going to… it’s not like normal pooh. When I come to wipe my bottom is like a giant brown felt tip which won’t run out. It’s like I’m never going to finish. If there’s only half a roll of bog paper I start to panic.

I never realised just how great a contribution the humble bidet was to the well being of mankind… or at least pregnant womankind. Since getting up the duff I’ve come to see it on a par with fire and the wheel.

Oh well, thank heavens for small mercies. I’ve only done three today so far *. Yesterday at my breastfeeding class it was very embarrassing as my stomach was growling like the MGM lion and I was the last person back from the 10 minute break and they were all waiting for me and all I’d been doing was sitting in the disabled loo poohing! For 10 minutes! Geez!

I walked the one and a half miles from the station into town and it was only when I had to go back to the station that I realised that the bespoke station shuttle buses no longer ran. Instead buses on other routes served the station every few minutes. Which routes though… Mmm… good question.

20 minutes later, I gave up trying to suss it out, the fact they were digging up the bus station so none of the usual departures were leaving from the usual stops didn’t help.

I wasn’t really set up to do the walk both ways… In fact I’ve never been so fucking footsore and knackered in all my life! I so envied those bastards who could fit on bikes… or into their cars…

Unlike me.


On a different note, here’s some light trivia for you.

Did you know that the Norse god of love was called Frig. Yes Frigging in the Rigging is far more erudite and learned a song than we ever knew.


And there’s more…

Check out this little gem, below, which explains how the Dutch keep the urinals at Schipol Airport clean… Thank you to an anonymous somebody on stumble upon who put this up…

No home should be without one.

Lower your sights... and raise your aim

* Stop Press: It was FIVE by the time I went to bed though.