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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

It's not worth crying over spilt vino...

Remind me never to play board games whilst tipsy with my equally inebriated Other Half ever again. He's just far too competitive. I mean, honestly. It was only Cranium - not exactly high pressured. (Have you ever played Cranium? It's ace. Like 4 games in one.) And certainly not worth going in a strop and throwing a prop from the game - a ball of purple plasterciney play dough stuff used in a clay form of Pictionary - at me mid-sulk. Except he didn't aim properly. Oh no. The stuff missed me and knocked my wine off the table. Luckily my hand-eye coordination is better than his, and I caught the glass. Tsk.

My Facebook graffiti of the Incident. The Other Half was not impressed.

Anyway, apart from that, last night was tres amusant. A wee gathering of chums to celebrate our pal S returning from the Big Smoke. It was supposed to be themed (her idea) and that theme was Italian food (again, her idea. But a crowd-pleaser, nonetheless) and everyone had to bring something. As people arrived, our table became laden with an entertaining mix of garlic dough balls, spinach ravioli, mini tiramisus, teddy bear shaped pasta and more pizzas than in Rome. Therefore this turned into a Pizza Party. And a good time was had by all. Until the flying plastercine incident, that is.

Boys. Honestly.