My dear friend Lady Violet left London on Monday to begin building her Cupcake empire in Edinburgh. So, last Saturday I flung on an electric blue silk dress and Havaiana flip flops and waddled myself over to Dalston Junction where I got on the new East London Line. It was like being in New York. The train was air-conditioned, for fucks sake.
Boris - take note - this is what London Transpost should be like.....
(Interior of the new East London Line trains - how modern public transport should be...)
I was equally impressed when I arrived at New Cross in TWENTY minutes at this delightful establishment where dear Lady Violet had hired the private room upstairs.
(Thankfully for me the star meant that the last item couldn't be enforced)
It was a bit of a struggle for me but I did it. Sadly it was probably the last time I will leave my house for the next HUNDRED YEARS…..as I have now been signed off work with Pelvic Girdle Pain (sexy!). In addition to PGP I now also have an incredibly heavy front to accompany my grinding back. This shit just gets better and better. The doctor told me I have ‘potent hormones’. Thanks doc, I’ll get that put on a T-shirt.
In the meantime I have fashioned this belt.....
.......out of a long piece of sari fabric which can be wrapped around my hips several times and thereby provide support to my back and weighty stomach, because if I have to wait any longer for the NHS to provide me with a support belt in my size my daughter will be pregnant herself.
Yesterday I had a mini meltdown when I attempted to take my son to the library, literally ten minutes from my house. I took a bus two stops but even so, on the way back, everything became so painful that I had to call Bushman to come and rescue me. I don’t know exactly what I expected him to do apart from sling me over his shoulder, push the buggy home, deliver my baby and pour me a rum and coke. When he did arrive, looking bemused, I became teary and cried silently the rest of the way home holding up my bump with both hands and shuffling along like those bearded old women who can only leave the house in their slippers. It was pitiful.
In my last pregnancy the meltdown came on a lone shopping trip for bedroom curtains. I had been looking for curtains for days and couldn’t find anything I liked. I sat down on a bench outside Wood Green Shopping City (that place alone is enough to make anyone miserable, pregnant or not) and wept. Looking for comfort I phoned Bushman. Strangely, crying over curtains is something he just couldn’t relate to. In truth, it was a short conversation which provided little comfort for me and I learned a valuable lesson. Pregnant by your Jamaican lover? GET ON WITH IT and only cry if something REALLY SHITTY is happening. Poor quality curtains and bad shopping experiences are not valid reasons to cry in public.
So as the next EIGHT WEEKS before I give birth stretch out before me like a long holiday in Swindon with Gordon Brown and no booze, you can expect utterly scintillating blog posts from a housebound Trout. Actually you might find nothing at all if you visit here, in which case you will know that I am miserable because it’s a Troutie blog rule to keep the misery posts to a minimum.
So let’s keep things lighthearted and talk about incest instead….
My lovely friend Platinum Blonde, who I went to stay with in Exeter not so long ago phoned me this weekend with news that she is pregnant. I find it difficult at the moment to react to this news with anything other than scepticism being, as I am, a miserable pregnant woman. I was of course pleased for her although thankfully she seemed quite underwhelmed by this news and wasn’t expecting me to gush.
“I’m 13 weeks pregnant and I haven’t even told my brother yet…” she says. But what she also tells me is that she had a home visit from the midwife recently “….to make sure I’m not a crack whore” (her words, not mine) where she was asked if One-Non-Blonde (her husband) was related to her. She replies to the midwife, with some confusion and a sense that she’s stating the obvious,
“Yes, he’s my husband.”
The midwife, with not a hint of irony responded “No dear, are you related, this is Devon you know….”
Platinum Blonde who has been considering moving to Brighton anyway, says to me “I’m getting the fuck out of this place - she actually had a box to tick for that question.”
Apart from telephone conversations with good friends and my saintly parents, comfort has come in the shape of my sewing machine. I’m now fully into nesting mode, proving that despite being fat and unappealing I can still get a bootie call…..
(varying degrees of success - keen seamstresses will notice the faults and unfinished details - and yes I will be taking out the pins before my daughter wears them)
I have also created a 'Sherlock Holmes' poncho and muff for my daughter's winter collection 2012....
(Think maybe I went a bit overboard with the muff - you have to admit that is one big muff - do you think I could get the word 'muff' into this blog anymore times? - keen crafters can get some links at the bottom of this post - not muff links, sorry should clarify, crafting links!)
And now before this becomes a crafting blog I'm off to feed my son his breakfast,
fix the error on my washing machine, eat carrot cake for breakfast and get stitching........
Note to keen crafters: all items were made from this book. I'm now off to make some kimono baby shoes.
And if nobody leaves a comment saying "like your muff" I'm giving up blogging altogether.......