Paint and hedgehogs...

Today was a momentous day in our house: the nursery is finally decorated and all finished. Curtains up, lamp shade changed, cot assembled, changing unit ready, walls painted, wallpaper border firmly stuck and tiny clothes hanging in the wardrobe. We went for a unisex woodland theme in the end. I love it - hedgehogs everywhere!

The Other Half even bought the hedgehog shaped rug I had been bleating on about for the last month.

It's all starting to feel very real and imminent. And with six and a bit weeks to go, I really should pack my hospital bag.

Just in case.

The calming influence of The Other Half...

Tonight we had a horrible scare. I had my routine 31-week midwife check and all was going well until she started to listen to the baby's heartbeat. Normally this is a wonderful few minutes when yes, you do have to roll your top up, lie back and have cold jelly squirted onto your stomach, but you get to hear the amazing thudding heartbeat of your child in utero.

'It's very fast at the moment,' she said, and scribbled some numbers down on her pad. 'We'll listen again in a minute.' Repeat process. Same outcome. 'I'm going to listen for 5 minutes this time, as it's still not coming down.' Five minutes passed, more numbers scribbled. 'The baby's heart rate is very fast, and it's not coming down. It's around 190 bpm and the normal rate is between 120-140. This could be nothing to worry about; it may be the baby is just having a particulary busy afternoon in there that we've caught the middle of. But I'd like to send you up to the antenatal unit at your hospital to be on the safe side.'

We went to hospital, where I was hooked up to the fetal heart monitor (a very large, cold metal belt with a sensor on the buckle to record the baby's heartbeat) and checked and prodded by several midwives and an obstetrician. I've never seen so much graph paper in my life, and it was all coming out of the machine I was rigged up to. Finally, after three hours sitting in this room where women in varying stages of labour pain were coming and going, with The Other Half making conversation in an attempt to keep me calm, the doctor gave us the all-clear. Turns out they think I have a particulary active baby in there. But if I feel any pain at all, or the baby stops moving at all, I'm so go straight back to the unit. Relief.

Thank God everything is alright. And that The Other Half was with me - I would have been more of an incomprehensible quivering wreck had he not. He took us out for tea on the way home, and I burst into tears waiting in TGI Fridays for my chicken wrap. I think the enormity of everything hit me. I'm going to be a mother. And worry about this little person forever.

I'll tell you what I want, what I really, really want...

This pregnancy continues to amaze me. A couple of nights ago I went along for a work's night out in the Salsa Cafe in town, where we were all munching on nachos and sipping sangria (virgin in my case), chatting about this, that and the other and the subject of pregnancy cravings came up. The usual tales about people eating industrial-sized jars of mayonnaise and gherkins were thrown into the mix, along with the obligatory 'I know someone who knows someone who ate chalk when pregnant (or add any other disgusting substance here - sometimes it's coal)' story, and I was asked whether I'd experienced any cravings yet.

I haven't had any, I explained. Apart from a couple of times after I'd stopped feeling car sick all the live long day and quite fancied a chocolate milkshake. But I don't think that was a proper craving, more like me really wanting milkshakes and using pregnancy as an excuse to have them. Yup, I thought I'd missed the boat with cravings.

Anyway, on my way home that evening I suddenly had an all-compassing hankering for (and this has divided the office as to whether this this absolutely rank or not) tinned mackerel and cucumber sandwiches. So much so, that I had to call The Other Half and ask him to make me some (and go and buy the bits if we didn't have the ingredients). He did both dutifully. (Even cut them into triangles as they taste better that way.) I have had mackerel and cucumber sandwiches every evening since. It's not so weird, is it? No different to tuna or salmon sandwiches? Well, that's my comeback anyway, when someone at work asks what the fishy pong emitting from my lunchbox is.

Bon Voyage...

Goodbyes are never fun, but at least we did in (comedy) style! Yesterday we gathered a leaving party together to bid adieu to my pal S, who is off to start her PGCE and new life in Cardiff. And how did we mark the occasion? We took a cruise! In a manner of speaking. Well, I say cruise - I mean a tourist sightseeing boat up the Tyne. That still counts though, doesn't it? It went to the mouth of the Tyne and slightly into the North Sea, after all... and we saw a seal. Just the one, mind.

However, it did also have a so-bad-it-was-hilarious running commentary delivered by an old feller who keep telling us to look for buildings which no longer existed. And we were mooned at from the banks of the river by some scrawny looking young miscreants. But other than that, not a bad way to spend a bank holiday Sunday, all in all. I'd just have been under the duvet watching something shameful like Hollyoaks, ordinarily. But most importantly, S seemed to have a tip top time.

I didn't know what to get her for a leaving present, though. So, since she is about to embark upon student life (very brave to do it for the second time, and this time as an older and wiser mid-twentysomething - hopefully), I opted for a DIY student pack of essential university fare. I had great fun wrapping up mini variety boxes of cereal, instant noodles, a baked beans tin and a bottle of brown ale should she get homesick one night and feel the need for the blue-starred stuff. Oh, and the obligatory loo roll. You can never have too much loo roll.

And we still have no idea what a foot muff is for...

Who knew there were so many bloody makes of pram? Each with different terminology so you need a degree accredited by flaming Mothercare just to enter the store and be allowed to look at the displays. My mind has been spinning all the live long day. Strollers? 2-in1 prams? Travel systems? 3-wheelers? Tandems? (Actually - I think tandem is one we can safely cross off the list, since we know there is only one wriggler in there. At least I hope we can cross it off.) It really a minefield out there.

We've been into at least five separate shops - sometimes more than once - to compare things. And what did we discover? They're all con artists! The cheaper ones all feel like they've been built out of sticks and will implode and eat your baby. So you find something you think will work from the mid-priced section that meets all your criteria, see the price and think 'oh, well - that's not too bad.' Then you look closely and realise that the price is the pram frame only, and doesn't include the carrycot. Or the foot muff. Oh, and if you need a car seat, that's an extra £100. Plus the same again for the base. And don't forget your accessory pack - you might not be able to buy matching changing bags or parasols at a later date. By the time you've totted up the grand total, you've spent £750 quid on a flipping buggy without trying. And you still ask yourself what the hell a foot muff is, and do we need one?

In the end we decided to go for a model that was tall enough for The Other Half to push as well as me (it's always tricky, what with him being almost 6"5), would not involve taking out a second mortgage to pay for it, did not feel like it was made of matchsticks, and most importantly - could be collapsed one-handed without me bursting into tears in the middle of the shop crying that it's too heavy and I couldn't do it. It was tough, but we got there in the end - after several long hours beating away salespeople. And it'll be delivered next week so we have plenty of time to work out what a foot muff is actually for. Right, that's the pram sorted. Now for the cot...

Oh, and on the plus side, I was treated to a very nice chocolate milkshake in a diner this afternoon. Think it was for good behaviour, or at least good behaviour in the circumstances.

Pink or blue...

Yesterday, The Other Half and I trooped off to the hospital for another visit to the Antenatal wing - this time for the 20 week (anomaly) scan. Oh my god - that means we're halfway through! Eek! The sonographer spent ages checking the little wriggler's measurements (and it lived up to its name - it wouldn't stop wriggling! Squirmed about all over the shop then appeared to spend quite a lot of time with its backside in the air, mooning us - which resulted in some pretty rubbish scan photos), looking in detail at all its organs etc. (amazing to see its little heart beating in so much detail) and generally making sure everything is developing as it should be. It is, thankfully. Then came the question we'd been dreading because we didn't know the answer to it. 'Do you want to know the sex of the baby?'

Argh! Now, we have talked about this quite a lot. I said I would only want to find out if we didn't tell anyone else. The Other Half said he didn't think he'd be able to keep it to himself. Then we decided that we'd quite like the surprise, and the only reason people find out anyway is so they can start buying pink or blue clothes in advance, which is a bit of a rubbish reason to be honest. But when the sonographer asked, it suddenly dawned on us that this wasn't a hypothetical question anymore. We looked at each other, unsure, and I asked the sonographer if she knew what it was - 'Oh, I know the sex,' she replied. 'Do you want me to tell you?' Double argh! Yes but no!

We didn't, in the end. I think the surprise will be worth the hard work.

I just don't know what to do with myself...

I just can't concentrate at work at the minute. Hell, who am I kidding? I can't concentrate anywhere, on anything much at the minute. I'm not blaming anyone (okay, maybe I am...I say as I point to my stomach), but I just feel heavy and full and icky. (Yes, yes - it's not rocket science - I do know that I am pregnant.) According to all the websites I now look at daily (ahem - on my lunch break, of course), the little wriggler will be undergoing a massive growth spurt over the next few weeks and will be incredibly active. This however does not explain why I have to keep telling people at work to email instead of talking to me, because I'm liable to forget everything they say as I'm full of baby. Sigh.

Ooh, and I noticed today that my job (well, the maternity cover for my job) is now being advertised on work's website. Which I'm a bit puzzled about because it's only August and I'm not going anywhere until probably mid-December. Hmmm. Talk about getting a head start. On a different work-related note, I find myself being extremely easily irritated of late. Especially by people who sit over the other side of the office and sneeze at a decibel level I didn't think was possible for a human to reach, WITHOUT COVERING THEIR NOSES. I mean, how difficult is it? Not only do they offend my ears but they don't bother to take the simplest hygiene precautions in the middle of an epidemic when half the office seems to be off with swine flu.

Smelly auld hippies.

Gathering up the gang...

On Thursday some gal pals came round for a catch up over food - probably my last chance to cook for them all for a long while as one friend, S, is leaving our Northern realm to start her new life in Cardiff in a couple of weeks. It was a lovely, proper girly gossipy evening - and so nice as we haven't all been together in what feels like a long time. I made the gang:

Greek souvlaki with tzatziki
Mediterranean couscous salad
Served with flavoured olives, warm pitta bread, lemon drizzled rocket and avocado
And for dessert - Hot chocolate fudge cake

Yum! And it all went down well. The Other Half even poked his head in the dining room to hoover up the leftovers.

Last night we attended a family wedding party - the evening reception (the couple were married in a small ceremony last week - I think it was her second and his third wedding!). We didn't stay too long though - The Other Half and I only really knew each other and it's not much fun at all when I'm sticking to water because I couldn't face any more sickly sweet coke or lemonade, and he's joining me out of sympathy! Plus we had all manner of random strangers come up to us to wish us well (which we don't mind at all), and bestow their sage advice and old wives' tales upon us (grin and bear it through gritted teeth). Apparently I am going to have a boy as I'm all bump up front. (Where the hell else is the bump meant to go?!)

Speaking of the bump, yesterday was also a turning point as I felt the baby move for the first time! It's amazing - I knew instantly what it was, feels like there's a giant butterfly in there fluttering about. A bit squirmy and wriggly, too - as if it's turning over and trying to find a comfortable sleeping position. And since that first recognisable squirm, it hasn't stopped moving! From here on in I shall refer to the wee one as the little wriggler. The Other Half can't feel anything yet - but it'll only be a matter of weeks until hopefully he can make out an elbow or foot!

The pillow fight...

For the past couple of weeks, every now and then I've been experiencing a shooting pain in the very base of my back - around my coccyx when I stand up or bend funny. A bit like there's a trapped nerve, but there's not. I've discovered this phenomenon is yet another tribulation many pregnant ladies have to put up with, and it goes by the rather delightful name of PGP (pelvic girdle pain). Joy. The midwife helpfully says there's not much you can do about it - rest, don't strain, have baths and try some pelvic exercises when it doesn't hurt. But it should disappear after the birth. Comforting thought, only five more months to go.

One thing that may make a difference and alleviate the back pain a bit, she suggested, is adjusting my sleeping position. I had been doing this unconsciously anyway - in the mornings I've often found I'm curled up at an odd angle on my side and seem to have pushed The Other Half so far out of the bed he's ended up in the spare room. I think he may need his own bed permanently, now. There are now NINE cushions propped around me when I sleep like a wall of padding. Two supporting my back when I'm lying on my side, two between my knees to support my pelvis, two on my other side wedged under the bump, two on top of my pillows to make my weird sleeping angle more bearable, and one under my elbow, just because. You can't move for cushions. But it does seem to be helping.

Well, it's helping me. I'm not so sure about it helping The Other Half. He seems to have settled for the bum end of the deal - on the nights he can see enough space to sleep, he has to strategically climb into bed and take whatever room he can claw back. That's if the cat hasn't stolen his spot completely, though. She likes the cushions. On such nights, he's relegated to the spare bed. And I would feel really bad about this but it's hard not to be pleased when my back hasn't hurt for the first time in three weeks.

Sweet dreams are made of this...

This morning I woke up in a cold sweat, and when coupled with a feeling of complete and utter blind panic - that's not such a good way to start the day. I was reading an article online not so long ago that said pregnancy can make your dreams incredibly vivid. 'Ooh,' I thought. 'I haven't been dreaming much recently that I can remember. Wonder if it'll happen to me?' Haha, yes it did. I felt sick when I woke up. And proceeded to shout at my poor, unsuspecting Other Half. Cue Wayne's World's Scooby Doo dream sequence, and I'll take you inside my dream...

I was about seven months pregnant, it was a weekend (I know this because the Grand Prix was on the TV) and I was getting ready to hop into the bath. The house was as it is now, i.e. no nursery set up, no pram on order, no pile of Allen keys from flat pack baby furniture. While in the bath and thinking that we really should get a move on and start to sort out what we'll need in time for the new arrival, I went into labour early. And it was a remarkably quick labour, even for dream standards. (Let's just hope the real one is as quick and easy.) No matter how many times I shouted for The Other Half to phone the midwife, or the hospital, or anyone - he kept saying he'd do it after he'd seen the Grand Prix. Anyway, I had the baby in the bath and woke up still screaming for The Other Half to phone the midwife.

Literally. I think I may have whacked him with a cushion in my panic and yelled 'WHEN I SAY PHONE THE MIDWIFE, YOU PHONE THE MIDWIFE - OKAY?!' To which he woke up startled and mumbled something I couldn't hear (but it was probably something about me being a crazy, hormonal raging pot of fury) and looked at me with fear as I ran for paper and a pen to make a list of essentials for the baby. 'In case I have the baby early in the bath,' I explained. 'And we don't even have anything - the only thing we do have is one solitary baby grow hanging in the wardrobe. We must have a list!!'

And a list we have. It seems to have alleviated my panic, for now.

The bump cometh...

Today was my first day back at work after my week-long holiday of sleeping, lying in bed watching DVDs and shopping for maternity clothes that don't look like ancient Laura Ashley relics or involve any sort of dungarees. Why is it that people think pregnant women swan about in dungarees? In films it's like the only costume they have for ladies up the duff. I'd be able to hear the derisive laughter from here if I turned up at work wearing such giant-sized toddler apparel.

Anyhoo, I actually wore a maternity top to work today for the first time. I'm not quite into the comedy maternity jeans yet, but the tops are pretty good. And it seems all my begging, pleading, screaming and general tantrum-esque impatientness with not having a visible bump has all paid off - people who didn't know I was knocked up commented on my bumpiness today! Hooray! It just seems to have instantly appeared as soon as I wore something with a maternity label.

Why is it I didn't look pregnant until I wore a maternity top? Are they magic tops? I think they might be.

Grow, bump, grow!

I'm feeling very impatient. I'm in an awful inbetween stage of my pregnancy where I still don't really look like I'm with child, so passing folk just think I've stuffed myself with a few too many roast dinners and piled on several pounds round the middle. Urgh. However, there might be no real bump to speak of yet - but my clothes are getting a little nippy. And it's never a good thing when you can't fasten your jeans up anymore and the old elastic band and safety pin trick to get a wee bit more longevity out of them no longer works. Yup, time to go shopping for maternity clothes.

And that's what I did today. I was actually quite surprised with the range of stuff I've managed to get - it's all from stores I normally buy from, and very similar to what I'd wear anyway with a slightly different cut to make room for expanding stomachs. Apart from the best invention ever - maternity jeans! They look like regular jeans, but instead of having any buttons or zips at the top, they have an enormous stretchy jersey material piece that almost comes up to my armpits. But they're sooooooo comfy - I may actually wear them all the time, not just when I'm pregnant. (Incidentally, I had a male pal at uni who had a similar pair of pants he kept specially for nights when he ate his supper in those all-you-can-eat chinese buffets. Buffet pants, he called them.)

So I'm all set and can actually wear attire that fits to work next week. But I still want to know where this bump is. It's been four months now, surely it must be on its way? I WANT A BUMP! Please?

Like a busy bee...

This week is gonna be a busy ole week, methinks. I have a week off from work (woohoo!), and while I intend to use the time wisely and sleep as much as humanly possible - I also have a midwife checkup, my sister is up visiting from the Big Smoke, and we have relatives over from Cyprus. Speaking of whom, it was their Golden Wedding party last night. Fifty years is quite a long time to be married. I'm approaching three.

Now, it was nice to see people I haven't clapped eyes on in ages, and chat to folk about my impending motherhood - but really, was is necessary for everyone and their dog to come and give me their sage advice on childbirth and babies? They could have let me sip my lemonade in peace, but no. I nodded through countless tales of sleepless nights (some evil babies who apparently didn't start sleeping through the night until they were 5), horror stories of labour and birth, listened to the debates of whether I'm having a boy or a girl depending on the height, circumference and pointiness (pointiness?! I hope to god it isn't pointy) of my bump (there's not much bump to speak of yet, so that one was a bit difficult), and smiled sweetly as newfangled methods of child rearing were derided.

I know they all mean well, but if I hear "Ooh, sleep now while you have the chance!" one more time, I might actually burst a blood vessel through screaming.

I'm picking up good vibrations...

The Other Half, my unborn child and I went to see Brian Wilson last night. Tremendous gig! I was worried he'd destroy all my childhood memories of The Beach Boys over the course of an evening, but no - the doddery old fella still has a good pair of lungs on him (and a top notch accompanying band!). And it was the baby's first live music experience. I think it enjoyed it. The Other Half also spent the journey home amusing me with renditions of Beach Boys songs sung in Vic Reeves' club singer style. There is no end to the man's talents.

Yesterday was also my folks' 29th wedding anniversary. (Their 'furniture' anniversary, according to t'interweb.) And my mother dearest informed me that next year for the 30th Anniversary- which I'm pretty sure is 'pearl'- she'd like a clock. A clock?! Alright mother, I'll get you a clock. I'm guessing she wasn't happy with sad bunch of tulips I got her yesterday that didn't stand up. Damn tulips.

At last, my head is out of the loo...

Inform the national media, ring the church bells, write it in huge letters in the sky and make me a nice sandwich, please - my head has finally emerged from its lengthy stay down the toilet pan and I'm back on food for first time in weeks - hale-bloody-luliah! I'm celebrating with a homemade curry and The Other Half. Come on!

Mmmm, curry.

In six months time...

I got a flavour of life with a newborn, tonight. A work pal and I went to visit another gal from work who just had a baby girl. We were instructed not to dare enter their house without food, so we stopped off at the supermarket for lots of chocolate pudding. Ah, the baby is gorgeous. And teeny! If I wasn't already up the duff I'd be going home and complaining to The Other Half that I think it's high time I should be.

They're coping really well. Really nailed the whole nappy-changing malarkey, and they even made our dinner! I know that my house will be the scene of utter devastation by comparison in six months, and that will really irk my neat-freak hubby. Tomorrow I'm having tea with some more work pals, then off to see my sister who's up from the big smoke for her birthday. A better week than the last, at least. Think I'm starting to feel a bit better on the whole sickness front, too. Fingers crossed.

And just in case you were wondering, The Hoff story is correct. His ex-wife Catherine married an actor named Michael Knight in 1992. Wow. Some urban myths really are true. According to Google.

Good mood, bad mood...

I was in a good mood today until I went out for tea...I even managed to eat at lunchtime and everything. I'll not go into details but tonight's tea out was quite an odd affair. It felt really strained, and I was bluntly snapped out and I'm not sure why! Then just to round everything off nicely, after tea the group smirkingly decided to go off for cocktails at which point I was really fed up and feeling sorry for myself so went home. Bah.

On a different note, another pal texted me when I got home with a picture of a new baby we're going to visit this week. She's so cute! Oh my god, that'll be me in six months. Argh!

And on a completely different note again, I've just realised that Tiger Woods looks like a black David Gest. Strange. And I'm about to Google an urban myth I heard today - that apparently David Hasselhoff's ex-wife married somebody called Michael Knight. That can't be true, surely?! I'll let you know.

The things nobody tells you part one...

Here are a few things I have discovered so far about being pregnant. Nobody thinks to tell you this stuff when you're knocked up. It can be a bit of a shocker. I'm sure there's some covert operation in place to keep these delightful symptoms a secret from all women of a child-bearing age in case they never procreate. Anyway.

First trimester pregnancy awfulness:

Tiredness.
This just hits you all of a sudden. It has so far led to going to bed at 7pm and uncontrollable sobbing on my part for no reason whatsoever. And I can't even watch adverts any more for fear of seeing some homeless kitten on the RSPCA fundraising one.

Digestion.
To be blunt, it's slower. Thankfully I haven't had heartburn and fingers crossed I don't...I've heard horror stories of women drinking nothing except Gaviscon and mint tea for nine months.

Puffiness and heaviness.
This is not baby weight. It's water retention (the kind you usually get right before your period - except this time there is no relief of that for at least another 8 months.) You just feel rubbish and large, and there's not even any visible sign of a baby yet.

Boobs.
They've just grown! Out of nowhere! This is not such a bad thing in men's eyes - but they hurt like hell. They're tender and sore and the nipples are the worst. It's even painful to take a freakin' shower. And bras don't fit you anymore.

Wee.
You pee round the clock. Why? I have no idea. The baby is so teeny it can't be pushing on your bladder. But it's obviously doing something to it.

Going off stuff.
Nature's way of purging your body of bad stuff, I suppose. Gone off coffee and alcohol completely - which is no bad thing as you're not supposed to have them anyway. I've also randomly gone off bananas.

Morning sickness.
It's a big lie. Gone by lunchtime? Ha! I wish. It's all the live long day. And here's another thing: THERE IS NO CURE! It's horrendous. I'm bloody sick of ginger snaps. The only thing I've found to keep it at bay is to graze on rice crackers throughout the morning. Which is like eating drinks coasters.

Glowing.
No - it's not pregnant lady radiance, it's sweating from all the hurling and retching and the effort of constantly running to the loo. My skin has broken out in sympathy spots, and my face permanently looks like I've just sprinted up the stairs several times.

I'll do an update of everything else I'm looking forward to (I say with a hint of sarcasm - cravings, bumps, freaky movement, sleep or lack of - oh yes) as and when they happen. Oh what a wonderful time this is.

More jelly on my belly...

We (t'Other Half and I) trundled off to the hospital for our re-scan today - and we now have an official due date! Today I am 12 weeks + 4 days pregnant and the baby is apparently due on 4th January. Which is the date I'll have to go with even though I don't agree with it as it'll be on all my official forms for maternity leave etc. Hmmm. I work it out to be nearer the original date that the midwife gave me, 29th December. Oh well. (And you can use your imagination as to how I can work it out. Let's just say we only needed to try once and you get the idea.)

This is the third due date I've been given actually, 29th Dec first, then it moved to 31st Dec...and now 4th Jan. Whatever - this baby will turn up somewhere around New Year. (I've now jinxed it all and bubs will decide to make an appearance mid-Jan, and give me two weeks of overdue hell.) The hospital folk carried out some tests today, too - and took some more blood (I've never had so many blood tests in my life) to do the nuchal fold combined test which assesses the likelihood of the baby having Down's Syndrome, the results of which I'll get soon. But everything else looked fine according to them.

And at least they had the decency to warm up that sodding gel before plastering it over my stomach this time. By god, it was cold last week. It's all over my jeans, though.

It's all so very twee...

Short post today as I can't really be bothered, if I'm frank. I promise to have interesting things to write about (and actually be arsed to write them) very soon. Ooh, actually, this is good news and worth shouting about: The Other Half started his new job today. Woohoo! Well done him, it hasn't taken him long at all really - and he's slogged his heart and soul out to find a decent role. And I'm not 100% sure exactly what the job is...something to do with online marketing?? I'll really have to learn. Bad wife.

It was Fathers' Day yesterday - and I made The Other Half a little card from the bump. Overly-sentimental, syrupy and corny? Yes. But hell, this might only happen once so I feel no shame milking every soppy occasion for all its worth!

Finally, it's all official...

Yay! I had my first scan yesterday - how surreal! And flamin' Nora that gel they use is cold. Everything was fine as far as they could see except I'm not as far along as they first thought, so will need another scan next week so they can carry out some tests they couldn't do yesterday. They reckoned I'm about 11 weeks gone at the minute. It was so strange seeing teeny arms and legs waving about on the screen and knowing that was a person growing inside me! And a little bit alien.

I took my best pal her birthday present last night and showed her the photo. She's over the moon too, so that's lovely. And it all makes sense to her now why I've been so awkward eating out for the last couple of months. It's so good to finally be able to tell people - I let the rest of my work colleagues know today - and in grand new technological custom, announced it on Facebook tonight. So the world now knows. Phew.

Little white lies part two...

The Other Half went to see Oasis last night, and took the chap who was his usher rather than me - which is something else I have to sulk about. (I spouted off some utter tripe about working late on a webinar and not being able to make it. Grrr.) Ok, ok - I donated the ticket to him myself as I'm still feeling like absolute shit on a stick, but I wanted to go! It would have been money down the drain though I wouldn't have seen much of the concert owing to the fact I'd have been in the loos for most of the evening then either gone home early or curled up under my seat to sleep. And sleep on a stadium floor is something I never want to do, regardless of how tired I am.

On a different note, my tea tonight consisted of things I haven't eaten since I was 12 (waffles, fish fingers and beans). Interesting. But they seemed to be the only food items that didn't make me feel queasy at the thought of. Hence my cupboards are now packed to the hilt with tins of beans and I predict many meals of beans on toast in the foreseeable future. Oh, and I ended up telling the guy who sits next to me at work today the truth as he's been asking me for a while now if I'm alright, and outright asked me this morning if I was pregnant. And since at the time I was nibbling ginger snaps with a grey, sleepy-yet-ready-to-throw-up expression, I couldn't think of a viable excuse so swore him to secrecy.

Gawd almighty, I'm counting down until I can tell everyone about this small person inside me so they can stop thinking I'm a tired, cranky, hungover bint. Well, they'll think that anyway but at least they'll know why I'm such a bint.

Little white lies part one...

Urgh.

Yes, I'm irritable. Shut up. I'm getting tired of keeping schtum now. Thinking of excuses for everything is almost as exhausting as being pregnant. Well, not quite, but you know what I mean. I also feel the need to bleat on about it all here because I can't vent it elsewhere. So I'd be prepared for some boring baby ranting posts if I were you. In fact, if you're adverse to such things, just bugger off now and save yourself the time.

I had tea out with the gals tonight. Which is usually a lovely, chatty affair but between me fighting to stay awake (not the company's fault, I'm just THAT tired at the minute) and having to pretend I'm not that hungry (not like me at all), I just couldn't be bothered with it all and found myself fantasising about going to bed with new pyjamas and clean sheets rather than participate in conversations about people we went to school with. Choosing what I could have from the menu was also rather trying. Sticking to lemonade is not my scene, and neither is not having coffee. Actually I was feeling quite bleurgh and sorry for myself in general but had to keep a fixed grin and at least appear interested in the exploits of my non-knocked up chums.

I've also found it difficult keeping things concealed at work, too. Being bleurgh at work is becoming much harder to disguise. This is partly my own doing too, though. Aside from needing the loo all the live long day and nibbling on all manner of sickness 'remedies' - trying to keep Amazon deliveries of baby books to work inconspicuous is like a Russian spy operation to get the packages safely to my desk unnoticed. Must find suitcases and large newspaper with cut-out eye holes.

Oh, I've managed to irritate myself now. Good night.

The icks and yuks...

To top off my already skipping-through-a-meadow-filled-with-daisies-mood, this morning the Vampire Midwife turned out to be correct. The sickness has started. Bang on cue. Just when I thought I might be one of the lucky ones and escape this indignity - my body obviously laughed out loud and made other plans. Oh, I can't begin to describe how lovely it is. I haven't actually hurled as of yet, but spent most of the morning whilst getting ready running to the bathroom as I almost did hurl. And retching and feeling grotty is just as bad as actually being sick as you have the wonderful task of feeling like a big bag of cack without the silver lining of the sweet release of puke.

Busy looking up sickness remedies as I type. I can't eat anything. The smell, taste and very thought of food at the minute turns my stomach. And I had to go into work and spend the day pretending everything was fine and dandy in various meetings with a demonic grin on my face that while creepy, at least hid the nauseating urge to barf over my director's shoes. Which, to be fair - if you had seen her shoes you might want to do the same.

Rubbish, rubbish, rubbishness...

Bad mood alert.

Well, The Other Half was meant to start his new job today. Meant to. Except he had a joyful phone call over the weekend to say that the company has been taken over and he's effectively been made redundant before he starts. Wonderful. So, he's back to square one. And I can see he's trying not to worry but it must be awful. And doubly worse because he's telling me not to worry for fear something happens to the baby through stress.

Oh, I can't be bothered to write anything else. And since this is almost past my new bedtime, I'm going to bed in a huff. Goodnight.

The vampire attacks...

The Other Half and I have a rare long weekend off together this weekend - ahead of him starting his new job on Tuesday. Normally we'd go out for sushi but that's gone out of the bloody window now. Sigh. Ah well. It was also my first appointment with the community midwife today. My gawd. Now, I'm not normally funny about needles and the like, but flamin' Nora did she take a lot of blood from me! It was one of those little tap things they spike your arm with and keep filling up many, many vials from...eight, to be exact. Eight vials of blood! I'm positive she took them home to drink, there can't be that many nasty blood disorder things to test for, surely?!

Anyway, aside from the stream of blood leaking from my arm and supplying the local vampire shack with their supper, we filled in lots of forms. LOTS. They covered everything from my job and health records to screening tests and what I had for breakfast. Well, perhaps not the latter- but we may as well have covered that because it felt like we touched upon everything else. For some odd reason, this first appointment with the midwife is called a 'booking in' appointment. Not sure why. Maybe all the form-filling means you're officially booked in to give birth at some point.

The midwife gave me a knowing smile when I told her I hadn't had any sickness. "Oh, give it a bit longer. It usually starts around 8-9 weeks." Fantastic. So now I've got puking to look forward to, along with excessive tiredness and wanting to go to bed at 7pm. How delightful.

Noooo! Please don't take my goat's cheese...

Today I printed off a list of food stuffs to check I'm not eating anything I really shouldn't be, especially as every food label I seem to read says things like 'contains raw eggs' or 'may be unsuitable for pregnant women'. May be? That's just not good enough - I need a definite answer! 'May be' is neither use nor ornament when I'm ransacking the fridge in a hunger rage. You might have gathered that I'd like to consider myself a bit of a foodie, so I'm not really looking forward to cutting out nice things I would normally eat without a second thought. So, here we go, the no-no list. Let's see what it says:

Raw/undercooked eggs
I hate mayo anyway, so no loss there. And I don't like dippy eggs and soldiers. But I suppose I'll have to read up on labels such as uncooked cheesecakes, mousse and lemon curd. Not so bad, as long as I can still have chocolate.

Pate and liver products
Ewww. Not something I would choose to eat anyway. So far so good. Apparently it's the vitamin A content in them or something that does something nasty.

Soft ice cream
That's fine. I'm not a fan of Mr. Whippy and listeria doesn't sound too pleasant a side effect, so we'll give this a miss.

Meat
Avoid undercooked meat - bye bye rare steaks! Ah well. I'm sure I can live without Parma ham and the like for a few months, too.

Fish
Limit intake of oily fish like salmon, mackerel etc. to two per week to cut the risk of pollutants, also tuna due to the mercury content. OK, that's doable. I will miss smoked salmon, however. But can't say I've ever eaten shark or swordfish so am unlikely to miss those.

Seafood
Only eat cooked seafood - no raw prawns etc. Which means no sushi - arrrrrgh! The Other Half better treat me to some sushi when I've de-sprogged, I tell you.

Unpasteurised dairy products
Avoid goat's and sheep's milk. Fair enough. And blue and soft cheese. Which means...horror of horror - I can't have goat's cheese, noooooo! I love goat's cheese.

The fridge better be stocked when I come home from hospital.

Meet the parents...

Well, we decided to tell the parents our little secret today as we'd be seeing both sets. (And it's becoming increasingly difficult to answer questions honestly when they ask what's new and how things are going...plus I can't always remember which white lies I've told them so things could potentially get a tad confused.) Anyway, they were all delighted. Although my dad didn't say much at first, and did look The Other Half up and down in a suspicious 'what have you been doing to my daughter?' manner. Yes, Dad - we've been married for almost three years, did you not see this coming eventually?

In other news, I'm very proud of The Other Half. 'Twas his last day at work on Friday but he starts his new job in just over a week. Good on ya, lad.

The cat's out of the bag (sort of)...

The Other Half's tireless networking away seems to be paying off, and he's had some very productive days of late. He's already had some interviews which he feels quite positive about, so fingers crossed he should hear something by the end of the week one way or another. Yay! Speaking of work - well, the cat's out of the bag and my work know that I'm knocked up now.

Actually - only a select and necessary few know, as I've had to be risk assessed due to the nature of elements of my role. (Namely lugging about five million boxes of marketing print about the building to find a home for it on a giant warehouse trolley and climbing up ladders in all weathers to change horrid concert posters. Oh yes. You can see now what my MA is for.) I think I scared my line manager - am pretty sure by the panic-stricken look in her eyes that she thought I'd called a meeting with her and HR to announce that I was either a) leaving or b) making a formal complaint. But it's good to scare them sometimes.

I also managed to raise a few eyebrows at my parents' pad over the weekend as I didn't have any wine when the family were round for tea. Should have said I was on antibiotics or something. Instead, I muttered something incoherent about not feeling very well. Damn. Can't wait until this cloak and dagger business is over.

And now for the good news...

Which brings me now to the good news - as you have to follow such tidings of bad news on a more positive note. And I'm happy to say the good news is something we're very happy about. Now, I'm in the future writing this as if it's the present - so pay attention. (It's wearing thin on me already, don't worry. I don't plan on doing this retrospective lark much longer - not sure how much of this mix of tenses my head can take!)

Okaaaay. I've been feeling poorly all week, you'll know because I've harped on about it enough. But certain things started to ring alarm bells in my head. Tiredness. Thirsty all the time. Not hungry. Funny sicky feelings. Headaches. And, to top it off - I was late. (But that says nothing as I'm about as on time as relying on catching a bus when you're in a hurry.) So, I decided to take a test. You can see where I'm going with this, I'm sure. Yes, ladies and gents - I am now a pregnant lady. And the doctor is prepared to take my word for it and booked me in to see the midwife as soon as possible as I've taken four positive tests (just to be sure!).

We're absolutely delighted - we'd talked about trying previously over Christmas, then just sort of forgot about it then remembered and decided to go for it in March. Who knew that'd be all it took?! We'd decided not to mention the good news to anyone (parents included) until the bad news had sorted itself out. Hence the retrospective blogging. Bit rubbish on the old timing front, but hey. So there you go. There'll be an ankle biter in the house by New Year's Eve, hopefully!

The bad news...

Well, you may have realised that there's been a little break in my posting recently - and you may be wondering why I'm now blogging retrospectively to fill in the wee gaps. All will become clear, I hope. You see, it all started this weekend when The Other Half and I experienced good news and then bad news to the extreme. It was a bit of a rollercoaster, to say the least. I'll start with the bad news first to get it out of the way; and the good news is the sort of good news that really merits its own post.

Okay, bad news. We've just found out that The Other Half's job is going to be made redundant. Poo bums indeed. That was delightful news for him to walk into this morning after a long weekend of loveliness - he came to meet me at work on my lunch break to fill me in - where I proceeded to have a semi panic attack - again, for reasons which are about to become clear later on! He has a two-week consultation period, and then that's it. And he knows that will be it as the alternative jobs they can offer are all based at least a few hundred miles away and are completely unrealistic options. Sigh.

But, being the proactive positive thing he is, he's already been in touch with all his clients and contacts to put the feelers out for any jobs going in and around his field, and has some good leads to chase. Not the most ideal situation in the world to find yourself in, but he's making progress already and I'm sure he'll be fine. (And apart from the fact that I'm a few weeks into the future already - so I know how this pans out! It's a very rocky road with more than a few bumps, to say the least.) And trying to remember details weeks after they've happened is not something I've ever been great at, so I'll be over the moon when my posts have caught up with real-time. Best get typing...

No, I'm not ashamed to admit I'm a Harry Potter fan...

Yessss! It's Thursday night and I'm not back at work until Tuesday morning. (Bank holidays and time off in lieu really do come in handy when you're short on the old annual leave.) That's four days of freedom, baby! Or, at least it would be if I didn't feel so icky. As previously posted, I thought I felt a bit funny after The Meal That Was Not Good on Monday (and I thought it might just be because I know my friend was also ill after said meal), but now I'm not so sure. For starters, I haven't actually been ill - and I'm sure something would have made a technicolour appearance had it been food related. No, I'm just feeling - well, icky is the only way to describe it. Run down and sickly and headachey and a bit poorly in general. I hope it goes off soon as there's a food fayre in town tomorrow and being a bit of a food-obsessive, I'd really like to go.

Anyway. Something which put me in a better mood instantly today was seeing a trailer for the next Harry Potter film, due out in July. The trailer is probably nothing new and existed online for ages, but it's sent me into a tizz and now I want to read Harry Potter and The Half Blood Prince again, just to make sure I remember the story properly and see what bits they've cut out of it. I'll probably end up reading the seventh book as well for good measure - a) to refresh my head about where the story is going and b) because that's my favourite of the books. Eeeee it's so exciting! Oh, hush now. Yes I know I'm heading for 30 years of age but that says nothing.

And on another completely different note, this also cheered me up no end today:

Cats really do rule the internet.

Tea time tales...

We've had a flurry of birthdays in our little group of late, coupled with some lovely birthday tea nights out in own after work to celebrate. But tonight decided to stay closer to home and go very local! There's a new little Italian restaurant just opened in our village and we thought we'd give it a try. However, no matter where we go in the world and no matter how good the reviews are from everyone else - it always seems to be our group who end up saddled with catastrophe and bad service. Something ALWAYS goes wrong. It's like a law - we must have faces that say 'yes, please treat us badly, we don't mind at all!'

I have a whole host of appalling service stories. Taking the top spot however was the time when a waitress tipped a whole plate of spaghetti bolognaise down my friend S's back, ruining her dress. No apology. The saving grace was that it was cold spaghetti I suppose, so no 3rd degree burns - although the fact that she was serving it cold in the first place is not very comforting. And she tried to short change us. Tonight wasn't nearly as bad as that, but it wasn't great. I'm not going to name names as it's a very new restaurant and is entitled to some teething problems, but really. Why would you employ staff who can't be bothered to listen to what customers order, and make it up as they go along? (Two of our meals came out wrong, even though we repeated the order twice as the waitress seemed confuzzled.) And we'd all finished by the time my friend G's dish came out. And when it did - yep, you guessed it - it was also incorrect.

Somehow I don't think we'll be venturing into that restaurant for a wee while. Especially as I now have the knowledge that my friend J has spent the remainder of the evening since we parted ways and went home locked in the bathroom with her head down the loo, saying hello to her pasta again. How delightful. And it may just be that I know this fact now, and I may just be being paranoid and looking for things that might not be there - but now I've got a funny queasy feeling too. Great. I could really do without a night of crying huey in the bathroom.

Hen dos and hen don'ts...

I normally avoid hen parties like the plague. I just don't get them. There's something unnecessarily chavvy and seedy about them. You might just think I'm being a cranky old crone - and you might be right. But I hate them with a passion - all that forced 'entertainment' and wearing ridiculous L-plates and flashing sashes. Tack and tat personified. Shudder. Even the very name of them strikes fear into my heart. 'Hen dos'. No, no - I'd really rather we hen don't, thank you. Saying that, I have been to a few decent hen parties in my time that happened to be lovely days out - a nice meal somewhere and a few cocktails. None of this awful veil-wearing, PVC fancy dress in town, throwing up in the street and dares to kiss as many random strangers you can gubbins. Eurgh.

Of course, some people can take hen parties too far. I know of one lady who was so obsessed with her wedding (Bridezilla complex - honestly, I like hearing about people's wedding plans in general conversation and what have you, but there comes a point when Brides are putting their bridesmaids on diets and telling them to dye their hair all the same colour that they really need to be told to calm down) and her ego grew so much that she had no less than FIVE different hen parties, all with different people, themes and in various parts of the country. And indeed the continent. No, no, no. And WHY? Don't these people mean enough to you to actually attend the wedding? No, she just wanted another excuse to be the centre of attention. Five times.

However, due to stupid work things I missed a friend's hen party yesterday, and I'm gutted as it looked like the sort of hen do I would have actually enjoyed myself at rather than making snide comments in the corner about Ann Summers merchandise. She just invited all her mates over to her house from all around Europe - male and female - to have a few drinks and a catch up as she's getting married in another country and the wedding isn't going to be a giant circus. See? That sounds nice. None of this 'last night of freedom' rubbish. If you think like that then you shouldn't be getting married. Marriage isn't about losing your freedom and spending a jail sentence with one other person forever. It's a partnership. And it certainly isn't about heading to Blackpool for a weekend of vomit and willy-shaped party favours. There. Rant over. For now.

The Easter bunny forgot my address...

I love bank holidays. They're even better when you get an extra day off work bolted on to your annual leave for free. Get in. And what's been even better is that we had a lovely Easter lunch yesterday and I didn't even have to cook it - my mother dearest decided to host! You can't beat Mum meals. Even if she does decide that the best 'universal' starter to suit everybody round the table is that 1970s crowd pleaser - prawn cocktail. (Although I can't complain too much as she does leave out the revolting nuclear tainted pink Marie Rose sauce, and adds nice lumps of white crab meat to the mix. With shredded cucumber and lime juice.)

Anyway, to more pressing matters. Easter eggs. In my opinion the best Easter eggs ever in the world bar none are the weeny little Cadbury's Buttons ones that cost about £1. The chocolate egg tastes so much better than normal chocolate for some reason! (Probably the excessive amounts of extra sugar they pump into them when moulding the eggs, but shush.) Then you have the added bonus of finding a bag of chocolate buttons inside. Fantastic. However, I have a bone to pick with the Easter Bunny this year. Did I buy eggs for others? Yes I did. And despite several hints of a not-so-subtle variety about cheap Cadbury's Buttons eggs, did I receive one? No I did not.

No Buttons egg. Not even one solitary egg. Or Mini-eggs. Not even a paste egg that my sister normally makes and stinks my mother's house out to high heaven with a boiling, staining concoction of coffee and onion skins. (Okay, I don't like boiled eggs but that's neither here nor there.) I suppose you know you're getting older when even the Easter Bunny forgets your address. When I have children I really want to hide mini Easter eggs around the garden and make an egg hunt for them. (Or get The Other Half to hide them so I can take part too - that sounds like a better plan.) However hard I try, I don't think I'll ever grow up. Do I have to? Oh yeah, people already think I have. Hence the zero Easter Eggs situation. Harrumph.

Acceptable in the 80s...

Carnage, cocktails and costumes - the three Cs of a successful party! I feel surprisingly fine today. Maybe it's because we've only just finished clearing up the residual crap so have had something else to concentrate on all day - or maybe it's down to the fact that I gave up on the Del Boy cocktails and started drinking the non-alcoholic plain pineapple juice when it all became too much round about 11:30pm when the 80s dancing competition ended? Hmmm. Anyway, it was like, so totally awesome.

Fashion Wheel, Kerplunk, Spirograph, Screwball
Scramble, Operation, cocktail umbrellas, armbands,
neon...how many 80s relics do you remember?

Everybody made the effort to dress up which was brilliant. Neon Barbie and Ken (matching sun visors and vests!), Madonna (more bracelets and lace than you could shake a stick at), The Hoff (with curly wig, chest hair, leathers and orange skin), Alex Drake (Ashes to Ashes), the 1984 LA Olympics, many generic 80s costumes in varying neon colours featuring legwarmers and awful make-up - and we had two iconic 80s doctors in our presence - Ghostbuster Dr. Egon Spengler and Doc Emmett Brown, to bring a bit of science to the proceedings. Egon's proton pack was made from a cereal box wrapped in a bin liner with a vacuum hose poking out of it. Genius.

All you need for a DIY 80s party:

Food
Anything full of sugar, colourings, and leftover from primary school birthday parties - fairy cakes and crispy cakes, crisps (Space Invaders and Monster Munch), party rings, jammie dodgers, rocket lollies, pickled onions and cheese on sticks. I topped it off with a Mr. Men birthday cake.

Cocktails
'Del Boys' - pineapple and coconut juice, Malibu and pineapple slices (from a can of course). 'Club Tropicanas' - orange and mango juice, peach schnapps and lemonade. Decorate both to the hilt with mini umbrellas, those plastic monkeys, glittery streamers on sticks and fruit in the glass.

Music
My crap 80s iPod playlist came in VERY handy. Gather up as much electro-pop and synth as you can. Think Wham!, Cyndi Lauper, MJ, The Boss, A-ha, Kylie, one hit wonders plus film soundtracks. And make sure you have an 80s dancing competition.

Costumes
Several people picked an 80s character or icon, but most dressed in general 80s attire. Armbands, legwarmers, off-the-shoulder tops, big hair, crimped hair, lace, bangles, stilettos, and - would you believe it - as much neon as you could possibly wear.

Games
We all raided our garages to procure such relics as Fashion Wheel (still with its original coloured pencils!), Operation, Rubik's cubes, Kerplunk, Spirograph and Screwball Scramble. I also found a bag of Trolls. The drunken Kerplunk tournament was a particular highlight, however.

Decorations
Afore-mentioned bag of trolls came in handy to decorate the room. As did streamers and balloons in as garish-as-possible colours, luminous table confetti, Barbies, My Little Pony, (I think someone may have brought a Care Bear?) and just general neon-ness.

Dude. It was like, so totally tubular.

Happy birthday to me...

Howdilly ho. And happy birthday to me! (Well, yesterday.) I'm on a week's holiday from work and intend to string this birthday lark out as long as humanly possible to mark (or mask) the fact that I'm now fast approaching 30 and should be behaving in a bit more of a grown up manner. Or something. The flood disaster is almost all repaired (woohoo!) and the damage was not nearly as bad as we first thought, so now I'm knuckling down to trying out recipes from my new Hairy Bikers cookbook and that all-important task of planning my birthday party. (I don't have to grow up straight away, do I?)

So, what's it like being on the other side of 25? It's not so bad. I still consider myself to be mid-twenties. (I can get away with that for another year, surely?) And just to be contrary, so far there's nothing grown-up at all about my planned partay. The theme is the 80s - so we're having an all-out kitsch fest. 80s games, 80s clothes, 80s music, 80s cocktails, 80s crap party food - the works. I need to make a trip into some neon-clad shops very soon for supplies. I have a feeling this party may hurt everyone's eyes with the sheer amount of neon that'll be on display in the house.

Actually, I am being quite grown up at the minute - not only are The Other Half and I visiting his mum in hospital everyday (she's had a horrendous sounding operation to remove some vertebrae and have metal rods inserted in their place - and is on the mend), but I've pro-actively remembered to make myself an appointment with my doctor without receiving the shameful 'your 3-year check-up is now overdue' letters through the post. (Girls, you know which check-up I'm talking about. It's that not-painful-but-no-less-unpleasant procedure that's necessary yet icky.) So, I've got a nurse invading me with what can only be described as a miniature loo brush to look forward to tomorrow. Oh joy.

Like that bit in Superman when the Hoover Dam bursts...

Back in early March, I somewhat stupidly wrote a post about how well our bathroom renovation seems to be going. What in the name of all that is good and holy was I thinking of?! I've cursed my house! Well, you might have gathered that things aren't in fact running smoothly at all. For starters, it's taken almost a month to reach a point that's somewhere near a finished product (and almost a month of strategically planning when is a safe time to nip for a wee amongst the building rubble that has taken over the place), and just when we thought everything was pretty much finished last night and therefore safe to turn the water back on...it turns out it wasn't. Oh no.

Water erupted from every possible mechanical orifice that it could. Like geysers, only colder. And indoors. The bathroom is flooded, and in turn - so is the kitchen as that's the room directly below the bathroom and the laws of gravity had to carry the water somewhere. Then, we tried turned the water off completely at the stopcock in the kitchen - alas, to no avail. It just kept turning! And water kept gushing! There's now a tidal wave downstairs being haphazardly collected by a bucket wedged under the leaking tap, while people who I hope know what they are doing are busy freezing pipes to replace the broken stopcock. And have dug up several floorboards in the process. Argh!

This has resulted in me having to work from home today in order to empty out the overflowing bucket of water from the busted pipe every twenty minutes - and an email of much ambiguity went around my colleagues proclaiming that I wasn't in the office today "due to plumbing problems". I foresee having to explain several times over tomorrow that this was not a euphemism. Sigh. I hope this is fixable sharpish. All I wanted was a working bathroom - that's not too much to ask for, is it?

Masquerading as a luvvie, dahling...

It's been quite a while since I frequented the theatre. So long, in fact, I can't actually remember what the last performance I saw was. Tonight, a motley crew of us dusted off our high-brow hats and celebrated our friend's birthday with a visit to the theatre, dahling, to see An Inspector Calls. Oh, alright - it was via the pub, but hey - who says luvvies can't scoff curly fries? The play was interesting and the set looked fab (I remember seeing the old black and white flick many, many moons ago and loving that so I was trying not to compare the two in my head), but our seats were right up in the nosebleed section and were so high up that the people on stage looked like beetles in period costumes. Oh well, I suppose that's what you get when you masquerade as a arts critic on the cheap.

And that's apparently all I have to say this evening. I bid you goodnight.

Bring on the sangria...

I love a decent catch up session with friends. Especially with those you don't see nearly often enough! Last night I headed out into town for tapas and lots of talking - for a long-overdue reunion with some pals from my MA. This merry bunch of folk included the star guest - the seldom-seen gorgeous gal from Athens who just jetted over to visit for a few days: cue lots of duty-free ouzo produced from her bag for each of us and the rest of the night becomes a bit blurry!

Tapas is lovely but it's lovelier in the relaxed-and-nestled-away-up-the-steep-cobbled-street-restaurant of El Torero. The sangria soon flowed copiously along with the gossip and it was fantastic. I learned all about my pals C and M's new pad in Durham; L's updates on her latest novel (she's up to number three - and I'm very jealous, having read one and two); A's job for a Greek theatre company; as well as everyone giving their lowdown on the recent cinematic offerings (hey, we're all ex-film students so we're allowed to judge). Lots of loveliness.

And to round the weekend off nicely, today is Mother's Day so I'm heading over to my folks' for some Mum cuddles and to bestow some flowers and nice things upon her. I like weekends like this. I just wish they happened more often - I guess I'll just have to get saving for that trip to Athens to make them happen more often!

Top o' the morning to ya...

I love an excuse to get into the kitchen and whip something different up, and last night was no exception! OK, I did have a reason. Wait - I'll rephrase that. I FOUND a reason. Yesterday was our 'official' 7th anniversary (i.e. the day we actually first went out together), and also St. Patrick's Day. And while neither myself nor The Other Half have any Oirish ancestry or links whatsoever, I thought what the heck and decided to try my hand at some Celtic cuisine for the occasion. Here's what I cooked up a storm with:

Soda Bread
Ok, I ran out of time to actually make this myself but it looks simple enough! And the supermarket coughed up a pretty good alternative to homemade.

Beef and Guinness Stew
I adjusted the quantities for two people, and used a mixture of button and chestnut mushrooms as I didn't have shiitakes. Plus I chucked in some chunks of carrot to pad it out a bit.

Colcannon cakes
So simple to make and could go on the side of lots of meals. I used the bacon to top them - but if you were veggie you could always sprinkle with grated strong cheese instead.

Cheesecake with Irish whisky sauce
This was delicious (we had to wait a wee bit of time to actually attempt to eat it, however - we were soooo full up after the stew!) and I'm not a whisky fan, but this was absolutely divine.

Yum, yum and yum again. I don't think I'll be waiting until next year for St. Paddy's Day to come around before I make this little lot again.

Will you have a cup of tea, Father? Ah, go ON...

Times are hard. So hard in fact, that a group of friends and I have taken to hosting our own festival instead of buying tickets and trekking to the back end of beyond. Except this is a festival with a difference – it’s (DIY) TedFest 2009! And it had its first outing this weekend. You see, there's a birthday in our midst - my pal S, who is now no longer the nice round number of 25. And she's a big fan of Father Ted (who isn't? It's fantastic!). We really wanted to go to the actual TedFest in Ireland, but as we're all skint - this do-it-yourself job is (almost) the next best thing.

If you've never seen Father Ted before - hang your head in shame. I strongly recommend that you watch it. It's classic. Here's a bit of a scene-setter: three incompetent Irish priests - Ted, Dougal and Jack - live in a decrepit old parochial house on crazy Craggy Island with their bizarre housekeeper Mrs. Doyle, and get into all manner of mishaps and misunderstandings with the insane folk of their parish. So simple, yet it's got some of the best lines and catchphrases from comedy - ever! Anyhoo, I digress.

The night was a huge (if surreal) success and everyone made an effort with the costumes and scene-setting. S got into character easily as Mrs. Doyle the demented housekeeper, and served everyone their drinks from teapots all evening. We each brought a selection of sandwiches with us so a mountain of bread became the table centrepiece (again, if you've never seen the show, this will mean absolutely zilch to you); The Other Half did wear his new wig and take a pet brick along for company; and the room was generally filled with priests, nuns, weird villagers and Lovely Girls contestants. And we played the game I spent Saturday morning creating out of an old notice board, some embellishments and some pictures I found online of babies with inordinate amounts of hair...'Pin the 'tache on Pat Mustard's Hairy Babies'! A good time was had by all.

Pat Mustard's (the hairy, randy milkman of Craggy Island)
offspring...before they were studded with moustaches in a
'Pin the Tail on the Donkey' manner.

I'll be steering clear of sandwiches for a long time though, that’s for sure.

Wig Wham Bam...

Well, this week I did something I've certainly never done before. No, not swimming with dolphins (although I'd like to one day); not skydiving from a hot air balloon (can't say I've ever really thought about that one) and not even finally sitting through the whole Lord of The Rings Trilogy (I managed half an hour of part one and fell asleep, and have never attempted again). No. This was neither exciting nor daredevil, but it was something I wouldn't care to repeat. Namely, having a domestic with The Other Half over a grey wig in the middle of a fancy dress shop. I kid you not.

On Monday, we went shopping for some bits and pieces (namely a wig for him) for the imminent TedFest party we're attending. Since he is going as old Father Jack, a quick bit of research on t'interweb told us we probably wouldn't get a Father Jack-specific wig, but something along the lines of a mad scientist/Beetlejuice-looking grey wig would do, especially as we could do the finishing touches to the costume ourselves to make everything more Jack-esque. So, off to the shopping centre we trotted to have a trying on session in every costume shop we could find. And by god, it was trying.

Tensions started to fray when we kept having to go backwards and forwards between different shops to compare wigs. Which pretty much all looked (and cost) the same. I'm not sure what The Other Half had a picture of in his head - I'm guessing he was looking for a packet labelled 'Father Jack wig', which I calmly explained several times over we were never going to find and we'd just have to get something as close as we could. Then the argument started when I found a Beetlejuice grey wig - which ok, didn't look exactly like Jack's hair, but we could trim it and it would be ideal. Apparently not good enough, despite the fact that nobody except our friends would see this, and nobody would care anyway if it wasn't an EXACT replica of Jack's mangy locks as they all knew who he was supposed to be going as.

It continued. The Beetlejuice wig just wasn't going to cut it as the picture on the front showed that the scalp of the wig was grey, when it should have been pink. This is when I lost it, there and then in the wig shop with a comedy polystyrene brick in one hand and a giant fake priest's cross in the other. The staff were so bemused by this weird couple shouting at each other over the colour of a wig's scalp that I left the shop and went off to buy a cup off coffee. On my return, I found a sheepish-looking Other Half with a bag in his hand. Turns out, he'd tried on the flamin' wig after I stormed out, only to find that the scalp was in fact pink, not grey. And it did look rather Father Jack-like after all.

I have no words.

What's shakin' baby...

Things have been a tad hectic of late, so here's the craic from this week in easy-to-digest chunks:

The seven year itch?
Not a sign of it, huzzah! On Monday, The Other Half and I realised that it was 7 years to the day since we met. (Whilst very inebriated at a party.) Although not our 'official' anniversary (we started dating on St. Patrick's Day), we celebrated with homemade spicy Thai burgers. Well, why not?

The bathroom saga continues
By god, does it. Nothing is ever simple in our house - it's going to take a lot longer to finish than we all thought due to fiddly little jobs that are taking ages to do. The plus side is: we now have working lights in there, yessss! Now for the ceiling, the vanity unit and all the tiling and grouting...

Hospitals smell
The Other Half had his annual heart check-up at l'hopital on Thursday (hole in the heart baby with another weirdly named defect I can't remember how to spell). This was doubly good as they said all is well with him, and because I tagged along - this got me out of a hideous networking event with work. Groovy.

Birthdays times two
It was my Dad and his twin sister's birthday on Tuesday (happy birthday, Daddy) and last night there was a family get-together using the occasion as an excuse. (Not that they need one.) Thankfully this time, family members refrained from horrifying me with all-too-detailed tales about distant relatives' personal lives. And we had cake. Yum.

The wig hunt
Next week we're at a party for my friend's birthday (and a sort of housewarming in her new flat, too). The theme is Father Ted, probably the funniest show in the world ever bar none. I'm now rooting through all manner of junk in the house in an attempt to assemble costumes, but we still need to go on a wig hunt to replicate Father Jack's hair.

The bathroom blitz...

Groan. We’re doing our bathroom up. I say we – what I mean is, my Dad is the builder extraordinaire; my Uncle the electrician is (surprisingly enough) fitting the spotlights; The Other Half is the labourer and I am the on-call tea and biscuits girl. There have been the usual mishaps of things not fitting how they’re supposed to, missing parts, wonky fittings and damaged panels…but nothing compared to the chaos that would have ensued had The Other Half and I been left to our own devices.

In our previous abode (the little flat), we attempted to spruce the bathroom up ourselves with some new flooring. Only we had no money whatsoever so ended up with some delightful ‘tile effect’ lino. Lovely. For reasons unknown, we used the old carpet that was down (who has carpet in a bathroom, for goodness’ sake? It’s very, very wrong! It was glued up the bath panel and everything!) as a template to cut from, and forgot that the design would therefore be inverted. We ended up with a fetching gaping hole in the wrong place that had to be covered with a bath mat at all times to hide our mutual incapability with DIY.

Things could be worse. At least after this, we'll actually have a ceiling instead of gaping plasterboard holes, and fully functional lights instead of a lone dangling bulb with exposed cables. Still, having to strategically time going for a wee is not my thing, really. But it'll be worth it. I hope.

Spring cleaning is good for the soul...

It's amazing sometimes how the simplest things can make such a difference. I've been stuck in a bit of a rut at work of late - of my own doing, mostly. My inbox is constantly full of red-flagged items and consequently I never seem to have the time to complete all those niggling little tasks I know I really should otherwise they'll build up. Hence the high towering piles of paper, newspapers and boxes of print that have taken over my desk and threaten to eat me. No joke. The towers were so high they swayed like an unstable jelly whenever anyone walked past. But no more! Oh no. There is a new me in the office. And it's all because the whole office is having a reshuffle and we've all been forced into a long-overdue clear out.

I now actually sit with people I work with, with a very tidy desk - both are firsts for me. With a window and everything. Amazing. The Other Half bought me a little purple-flowered plant to adorn the windowsill as I've harped on so much about having said window and being able to see daylight in the office for a change. And who'd have thought that moving desks could work such wonders for your productivity? I feel super-organised. (The extra added brilliantness of it all, is that I'm now nestled in the corner and have angled my computer screen in such a manner that nobody can see when I'm not feeling as hyper-efficient, and am actually cruising Digital Spy for gossip.)

The downside to this new-found tidiness is I've unleashed a stationery monster from within, and I didn't even know I had one. I had no idea that a whole world of matching files and storage boxes, neon post-its and coordinating kitsch desk items existed. Well, I did - but I've never had the space for them. Similarly, my sister has made me little odds and ends like Mome Raths out of pipe cleaners, little origami birds etc over the years which now have pride of place on my brand-spanking new workspace. However, I am now addicted to Pulpshop and Totally Funky. This must stop, I'm scaring myself.

Lazy person post alert...

OK, I've just got around to filling this in on Facebook after being tagged by several other people, and thought it might inspire me to write a post. It hasn't yet. So I've cut and pasted in the hope that it will...and if you've already read it, well - you don't need to again. Bonus!

25 Random Things About Me

1. I love all my family and friends. Even though most of them are complete lunatics.
2. I wish I could become characters in books and films. I’d love to live in Harry Potter’s world. Or be Marty McFly’s sidekick. Or be a Goonie.
3. As well as being a shameless blogger, I'm also a brand new Twitterer. Look me up on Twitter (although I have no idea exactly how it works and what I'm supposed to do with it, yet): http://twitter.com/WitteringByGem
4. The worst job I did was promotional work – on one job I had to dress up as a reindeer (antlers, red nose and all) in supermarkets and sing Christmas carols.
5. I have had two ghostly experiences in my life!
6. I was once in Byker Grove but all you could see of me on screen were my elbow and shoe.
7. I love crap 80s films and music and can often be found dancing in my pjs in the kitchen.
8. I once got a part as Medusa in a school play because I was the girl who could remember lines and scream the loudest.
9. I really want to go to San Francisco, Oz and New Zealand. My favourite places I’ve been to so far are the Rockies, New York and New England.
10. I love cooking and experimenting in the kitchen (even when it all goes hideously wrong). Sometimes I wonder if I should have gone to chef school instead of uni.
11. I am allergic to red peppers and hate mayonnaise, boiled eggs and batter.
12. I have danced on stage with Keith from Boyzone, had a piggy back from Frank Bruno, and almost been run over by Michael Winner (who, despite those Esure car insurance adverts, is not a good driver, I assure you).
13. I have an MA in Film, and can’t decide what my favourite film is. It’s a very long list.
14. I cry all the time at anything – books, films (even pathetic ones), songs…and have even been known to sob over adverts.
15. I broke my toe 3 weeks before having to squeeze into wedding shoes, whilst intoxicated in my house with lots of friends playing giant Jenga.
16. I’m really good at coming up with one-liners and witty retorts about an hour after I needed them.
17. My family tree is nuts – I have an opera singer, the guy who played Tub in SuperGran, a drug baron and a woman who spontaneously combusted all on there.
18. My tipple of choice is the oh-so-70s Tia Maria and coke.
19. I’d love to have a dog but would feel too cruel leaving him in the house all day while I went out to work. I have a crazy cat instead.
20. I carry a notebook with me to jot down odd things I find, funny turns of phrase I hear and (seldom) good ideas I might have. I’d love to be a published author.
21. I would love to have a kitchen big enough to house an island in the middle. Where I could pretend to present my own cooking show.
22. I would quite happily let Gene Hunt give me a slap.
23. I would really love to have children one day but am absolutely terrified of being pregnant.
24. If I won the lottery I would open my own café with a proper deli inside (i.e. not a sandwich shop!). I have a name worked out and everything.
25. I seem to have a knack for hoarding trivia. Often useful in pub quizzes, always good for boring people to tears with.

Dammit, it still hasn't inspired me to write anything constructive yet.

I have a bandage and I'm not afraid to use it...

Today, I'm feeling quite proud of myself. Small things. And I know anyone can do it, and it's not a big deal or anything, but I do feel like I've accomplished something of a personal goal. For as of this fine afternoon, I am a newly qualified first aider at work. Yes - be afraid, be very afraid. This week has been fun, actually. I wasn't expecting it to be quite so entertaining. There's the added bonus of being out of the office for almost a week (woohoo!), and the fact that you are learning a new skill...but it's been most amusing taking my blood and bandages homework home with me to practice slings on my bemused Other Half and swap horror stories with my fellow trainees and our teacher.

Here's hoping I never actually have an emergency to contend with, though. Blood I can cope with. Sticking my finger in my eye, no problem. Nailed the correct manner to dress a wound with a foreign body in it. Protruding bones through skin, however - well, you can keep those, thank you very much. My class have had to sit through some truly horrendous videos this week - burns, falls, chemical spills, spurting arteries, the works...but the only things to truly turn my stomach were the photos of footballers with snapped tibia bones jutting out their pointing-the-wrong-way legs. Hurltastic.

In true me-style, though, this week has not been free from catastrophe. Did you really expect it to be? Of course not. Monday morning, I left the house in a hurry. It was washing day and all my jeans were in the laundry basket, so I shoved on my denim skirt without thinking too much of it. Only to get into my course and realise with a jolt of horror that we'd all be role playing and practicing exactly what to do in various emergencies. Yep, you guessed it. There I was in the middle of a room full of strangers, demonstrating the recovery position and flashing my polka-dot kecks to all and sundry.

At least I was wearing tights, I suppose. And knickers. It would have been far worse if not.

Blades of Glory and the Crash Test Dummies...

Yesterday I wound the clock back ten years and became a giggly teenager once again. And it felt great! I haven't laughed as much in one sitting in ages. A group of old chums and I decided to go ice skating for my friend C's birthday. (And as a sort of anti-Valnetine's Day thing.) Even my rickety, never-been-on-skates-before Other Half was persuaded to give it a go on the proviso that we're all pretty much novices, and since it'd been about a decade since any of us last hit the ice we'd all be as bad as each other. Give him his dues, he did try. And lasted all of four minutes before he did a lap of honour (clinging to the edges for dear life) and went off for coffee and to stand and point at us instead.

None of us fell over, we got a bit of speed skating going on once we all found our balance, and one mate, dubbed Christopher frickin' Dean, even attempted some fancy turns and arabesques. Show off. Not bad for a bunch of fast-approaching 30 year olds, all in all. But we had earned a drink or several by the end of the session and headed off for what turned out to be a very funny, very drunken lunch...which lead to impromptu late afternoon drinks...which led to an en-masse gathering at a mate's house...which led to muchos singing and wine until the small hours. The unplanned things are always the best. My head did not agree with that statement this morning, however.

And as for Christopher Dean, well - he kept breaking out into song throughout the day (if you can call his repeated renditions of the Crash Test Dummies' 'Mmmm mmmm mmmm mmmm' song, that is). In the pub when the rugby was on (cleared the bar). In the taxi going to our mate's house (almost had to get out and walk, the driver was so harassed by the ongoing verses). By the 14th performance in our mate's house, we knew it was home time. And I can't for the life of me remember WHY it was so funny or what it was in aid of. But I do know I never want to hear it again for a very long time.