Think on

In response to 'anonymous', who courageously left a comment on my previous post asking if I was the only woman to have ever been pregnant before (which I have now removed BECAUSE I CAN): don't be so silly. A quick trip to Google will prove to you that that is blatantly not the case.

I can't believe I've got dickhead comments about this and not about any of the EastEnders drivel I come out with.

Signs that I am slowly going insane

1. At 8.45am I thought a McDonalds breakfast would be just the ticket to calm that pesky growling nausea.

2. This evening I apologised to a pregnant woman I bumped into by mistake, and then gave her the "Morning sickness eh! That's a lark!" eye contact over the Moses baskets when I realised it was a mannequin.

3. Went to Hamleys, for God's sake. An expedition which nearly ended in the nobbling of the hyperactive "Everybody! You have fun tonight!" demonstrator fellow with a junior telescope.

4. After whizzing all the meatball ingredients together in the Kenwood, tried to disentangle the lump of meaty goodness from the blades using my hand and not a wooden spoon; and as a result am sporting a large ACME style bandage round my middle finger.

5. Of all the songs that could be in my head to musically illustrate this post, I have got that "Out of your Mind" one, as squawked by Dane Bowers and Victoria Beckham.

Bah.

This is not in any way weird

Gruesome twosome

Watching Big Brother's Little Brother, one thought comes to mind:

Dane Bowers and Pauline Fowler - together again at last.

Does life get any better?

Walford bankers...

I wish I lived in Walford, where the banks are apparently open for business on Sundays. It's a bit different to my local branch, which at present is undergoing some extensive wallpapering that prevents them from providing anything approaching a service.

However, I can console myself with the thought that if I was signed up with the Bank of Walford I'd spend most of my life staring at the screen of the cashpoint near the tube while it mockingly told me I had an available balance of £0.00, like everyone else on EastEnders.

Not featuring Barry, Robin or Maurice

"I'm not sure they meant for you to drink that much water."

"But they said come with a full bladder!"

"Yes, but it takes less than a litre to fill your bladder, especially if you've just had four glasses of orange juice with breakfast."

"But it might not be full enough and we might not be able to see anything."

"Fine, but don't go moaning on to me when we're on our way that you need a piss desperately and are in pain."

Forty five minutes later...

"Ow. Owowowowowow. Can't....walk...properly."

"Ha! I told you so. Look, there's a public loo there."

"DON'T TAUNT ME."

Also known as Incident 8494 In Which I Am Wrong, it turned out that my bladder was so full that it was impossible to see whether I had a uterus at all, let alone find out if there was definitely something floating in it. The sonographer (who turned out not to be a member of the Bee Gees, and in fact wasn't even the mysterious Dr. Gibb who probably earns enough not to have to come in on Saturdays) let me go and relieve myself ("THANK YOU SO MUCH!") and then got down to business.

Sadly, the scanner's broken, so I can't show you all the 10mm embryo that's inside me, with a heartbeat that we heard and everything. In my current emotional state the fact that the scanner is broken is enough to send me into a wailing heap, and the only answer is M&S choocolate cornflake bites.

Mmmm, cornflakes.

Greece is the word

Bit of an extended absence there, although regular readers should be used to that. I went to Greece - Kefalos to be exact - and have returned with an orange tan and an unfortunate case of water retention that makes me look seven months and not seven weeks pregnant. Great!

K, H and I booked the holiday when pissed at the beginning of June - Hubbo had four stag parties planned over two months and I thought I should have some fun by escaping with the girls for a week of ice cold lager and tzatziki.

This would have actually been the case, was I not knocked up and therefore relegated to the position of The Boring One who sits in the corner being all "orange juice please, Tracy", Phil Mitchell style. I couldn't even go mad on tzatziki, as I've developed an aversion to it due to its yogurty consistency. I have also gone off hummus, which surely proves that there is no justice in this world.

Actually, the holiday itself wasn't too bad. I learned some things, namely that drunk people talk a lot of shit. I also got to tip a glass of water over a German fellow who decided to fall asleep on the walkway outside my apartment and wake me up by snoring at around 120db at 6am. He did not react well, and we had a shout-off for ten minutes before he would accept my sane and rational argument that he was a tit for not going to bed IN HIS BED and went to it.

So, now I'm back. Today I got to have my first experience of Homerton Hospital's antenatal unit - something which can be summed up succintly using the word 'chaos'. I was only dropping some forms off (complete with traditional useless scribbles courtesy of Dr Codeine over the road) and was on the verge of a panic attack. A man in overalls wandered in with a snack trolley at one point and it was like watching a load of angry hawks descending on a deer carcass. Because we're generally quite impatient, we've got an early scan booked on Saturday with a private fellow in town - a Dr Gibb. While I'm quite excited about this, it's not stopped me having nightmares about lying on a bed, bladder full and stomach smeared with swarfega, and suddenly realising a Bee Gee is about to give me an ultrasound while squealing a medley of 1970's 'Gee hits.

Obviously this is not the most exciting thing happening at the moment. No, the most exciting thing is coming back from holiday and having four whole episodes of EastEnders to catch up on (and still having three to watch tonight, if you include tonight's episode!) I see they waited till I got the Easties Comedy Award out of the way before cracking on with those side splitting abandoned rubbish/mouse in caff/robbing of QV bust. Anyway, a few questions which I trust regular readers will be able to help me answer:

1. I thought Phil Mitchell was always a vodka man (I can still picture the bottle hidden cunningly in Kaff's dishwasher). P Mitchell does not strike me as a chap to re-embrace alcoholism with a random bottle of Johnnie Walker or any old toot that's lying around Peggy's drinks globe (which she hasn't got, but really should). He'd make the effort to get himself a bloody good bottle of Smirnoff, neck it and then commence with the purple-faced beatings. I hope that on the plane to Rio he digs out Borehamwood's dog-eared copy of The Soap Guide To Alcoholism and takes notes.

2. Where is most of Samantha Janus's nose?

3. Who wrote to the BBC and complained there weren't enough Rubbish Gangsters in EastEnders anymore, prompting them to bring in this gun-totin' James Dean quotin' Blazing Squad member who is trying to get into the tiresome Lucy Beale's knickers?

4. Not a question, more of an observation: Go away, smackhead sister of Tanya.