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.

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.

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...

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.

I can't get no sleep...

What do you do if you can't sleep? It's the worst thing ever - you're tired and know you need to nod off soon otherwise your head will be hitting your desk leaving keyboard imprints on your cheeks come 10am the next morning - but you just CAN'T. Your body is betraying you out of spite and your mind won't wind down. I've had this problem for the last few nights now. My normal pumpkin hour is between 10 and 11pm. I know that if I'm not trying to get to sleep by 11 on a school night, I'm screwed. And yet there I am, bolt upright in bed at 1,2,3 in the morning onwards with my mind whirring. And I know exactly what's keeping me awake. Work.

Was it Margaret Thatcher who said she only needed 4 hours sleep per night? Nuts to that, missus. I can't function on anything less than seven - and that's just it, I haven't been functioning. It's felt like I'm just sort of, well, existing. Gone are the reckless days of uni when I could easily manage an all-nighter writing an essay or crawl home in the small hours only to face a full day of lectures (except for the time when I'd had one too many nocturnal sessions and fell asleep with my head in my hands during a lecture - only to fall off the bench with a thud when my elbow slipped off the desk). I've tried hot drinks, caffeine-free drinks, exercising at least three hours before bedtime, music, reading, writing...but I just can't shut my eyes because I'm worrying over work.

I don't like talking about work in too much detail here (you never know who is reading and all that), but it's visibly stressing me out. So I'll try to fill you in without the particulars. You see, there's a vacancy coming up in my department which my superiors have made clear they want me to go for. Which is great. But the more I think about it, the more I know that it's not the right job for me. It's at a higher level, but the money isn't much more than what I'm on now. The money's not the main issue though. It's the role itself. I'd be taking on things I'm not ready to take on, and giving up things I fought hard to get and I'm not ready to give up. I don't want my managers to think I'm not ambitious or have desires to move on elsewhere instead, though, because I don't. I do like my job. I'm still learning things everyday. But my head is saying that opportunities in my field don't come along very often, and my heart is saying I have to think about all the peripheral politics, too, (there are several issues I'm not going to go into now) and to trust my instincts. Sigh. You can see my dilemma, I hope.

And the more I think about it, the more I don't know what to do. I hope I know soon, though. Otherwise I can feel an overdose of Ovaltine or something equally vile coming along.

Working 9 to 5...

...What a way to make a living. Dolly Parton got it so right. All taking and no giving. There are always stressful days and weeks at work and general workplace frustrations that are sent to try us. This week, my office gripes bubbled over when they collided with almighty PMS. It has not been pretty. I've been exasperated all week by things I would normally shrug off and laugh about. Things like:

• The photocopier (there was not a jam! It lied! Although I fared better than my poor colleague, who had 90-odd booklets to copy and bind and couldn't get the stupid thermal binding machine to work - 'INPUT JAM' was all it said to her - so we had a chat about what kind of jam the damned thing would like. My money was on blackcurrant.)
• My computer (it was making a funny high-pitched squealing noise - I don't profess to be a technological wizard but I do know that when a machine screams at you, it's not good. I was, however, helpfully told to look out for smoke)
• The new scary franking machine (ate my letters)
• My waste paper bin (how can a bin go missing?? And why?!)
• The man who made me a hot chocolate in the cafe. Not only did he not use enough powder, which made it taste like dishwater, but he didn't stir it properly to get rid of the lumps. Shoddy.
  
• A colleague who is so incompetent I was annoyed simply by thinking about their past acts of sheer uselessness and had to get up and run away as soon as I had an inkling they were going to come and annoy me to my face. Harsh, but true.
  
• Myself, for forgetting to charge my faithful companion - my little blue iPod. All week long I've consequently had to suffer the vocal incompetency of The Most Annoyingly Voiced Coworker Ever Bar None. Her voice makes me want to rip off my arm and ram it down her throat. And I'm not a violent person.
  

And as if that wasn't enough, someone then committed the cardinal office sin. They stole my coffee cup. Stole it! How very dare they. Ooh, I was so incensed by this thievery and desktop robbery that I made a poster and stuck it up in the office kitchen (I say kitchen, it's really a cupboard with a kettle), complete with a Googled picture of my poor cup and a reward. OK - not much of a reward (a leftover Chomp bar I found in my drawer from Halloween), but still. I reckon it's being held to ransom.

I know I sound like a bitter and twisted old crone, but hey. I'm allowed to be narked. Now shut up before I bite you.

Hello, darkness my old friend...

The nights are drawing in and the clocks have gone back, and my office is full of people complaining about getting up in the dark and leaving work in the dark. The car needed de-icing this morning. The winter cometh. It's fantastic! Cosy nights in are the business. But I was thinking, you really don't realise just how much you rely upon electricity for mundane things, especially when it's dark all the time. The other night we had a power cut of epic proportions (well, I say epic - it lasted for all of two hours. But the Law of Sod descended upon us and clicked the power off just as we'd settled down to watch a DVD).

Not just our house or even the street - it felt like the whole village had been knocked out when we stood outside and stared over a dark valley. The total blackness and rolling valley mist were quite creepy and atmospherical, and it would have been eerily quiet had it not been for the house alarms going off on their emergency power and the regulars in the pub down the road making their opinions on the matter known to all most profusely. None of this would have been so much of an issue in the summer - we'd have just gone outside and carried on as normal or lit the barbecue or something. But as it's October, I had to make do with trying to read a book by candlelight, which didn't last long. I got as far as three pages and gave up and went to bed - spilling my Ribena in the process. (Yes, I drink Ribena. No, I am not a five year old. Hey, it tastes nice.)

So, instead of counting sheep, I attempted to recall games you can play in the dark. And here they are (clean ones, people!):

• Murder in the Dark - I can't remember exactly how to play this; but remember it at birthday parties in dark rooms. It involved some sort of murderer, detective and suspect shenanigans, but the rules escape me. I seem to recall testing out several 'death poses' and fake fainting, however.
• Sardines - a version of hide and seek in the dark. One person hides and seekers move around in the dark whispering "sardines" and listening for a whispered response from the hidden person. Fairly boring, but there's the added danger of falling over something.
• Pimped-up hide and seek - use glow sticks, those stupid fibre optic pen things you get at firework displays and torches to play hide and seek indoors or out. Again, could be interesting if your garden is filled with exciting things like ponds. Mine is not.
• Ghost stories - a staple of pre-teen sleepovers, usually resulting in weaker members of the herd crying to go home for fear of the serial killer with a hook. Usually involved sitting in a circle taking turns to pass a torch around and tell a story. Many sweets were consumed.
• Twister in the dark - does what it says on the tin. Things could potentially get a bit risque and you should really be careful where you put your foot. Ooh er.
• Glow-in-the-dark cocktail party - not really a game, but this idea is wearing thin and I'm clutching at straws now. Use glow-in-the-dark martini glasses and provide glow-in-the-dark accessories for guests to wear. This sounds like more fun than games anyway. I'd happily swig a cocktail anytime, day-glo or otherwise.

Oh, I can't remember anything else. The power surge must have shorted out my head as well as my house. Perhaps that's why this working week is so supremely awful.

As giddy as a kipper (or a big apple?)...

That's me this evening. Even though I'm exhausted, but it's good exhausted. Well, sort of. The shopping-all-weekend kind of exhausted. Normally I hate clothes shopping and trawling round gawd-awful retail outlets, energy-sucking shopping centres and (horror of horror) facing the chavtastic haunt and messiest shop in the world, Primark (actually I couldn't face it after all - I walked past quickly trying to avoid the throngs of teenagers pushing prams. Yes, yes, I know that's a sweeping generalisation but if you've ever had your ankles rammed by a double-buggie-wielding, tracksuit-clad mother in there, you'll know what I mean) - but this time it was for an excellent purpose. I'm going to New York on Wednesday!

And I've left everything to the last minute. As per usual. Thankfully the two day marathon around every shop in the North East (or so it seemed to my poor feet who have now given up on me completely) has paid off and I'm very pleased with my purchases. Even The Other Half, who is a worse shopper than me, has had fruitful expeditions. Although, I've had a blind panic to find my passport (I left it out; I know I did. I came across it a few days ago and said out loud 'Ooh, I'll leave that there where I can see it.' There was even half a ticket in it from the last time I flew. How it came to be wedged under The Box of Stuff in the study I don't know. Perhaps the cat hid it there in protest) and I still don't have any currency sorted out. That will be resolved tomorrow though. Fingers crossed.

So, I have another one and a half days left at work this week, then I'm gone until 13th. Woohoo! It's been almost 2 years since The Other Half and I have had a proper holiday together (i.e. more than 3 days off work in a row; and abroad) and since then I've endured listening to other folk talk about their global adventures with pangs of longing. I'm sure I've already started to get on people's nerves by randomly exclaiming where I'll be and what I'll be doing when they're having their boring weekly meetings; but to be honest, I don't care. Too excited. And that will only quadruple as the hours go by and I (hopefully) tick things off my to-do list at work. (Does anyone else get a little sense of accomplishment when you untick a red flag in your Outlook emails? No? Oh well.)

Look out New York City, I'll be there by Wednesday afternoon. And this time, I'm old enough to drink you dry.

Running on empty...

Apologies for the lack of posts over the last week. Things have been hectic to say the least and I feel like I'm only just starting to catch my breath. The last week can be summed up like so: work stress, spent too much money at opticians, work stress, hen do, work stress, London, sandwiches, work stress. More on the hen do another time, and I'm still recovering from the horrendously expensive trip to the optician so it's best left well alone for now.

The office is doing my head in at the minute and my workload is really getting to me. Stuff comes in quicker than I can turn it all around and the in-tray - on what used to be my desk but is now where paper goes to die - is literally four feet high. On Thursday we had a very big logistical nightmare to sort out for some publicity photos. The photo shoot from hell. Hard work. Tons of red tape and health and safety gubbins. To be expected really, since the shoot involved an orchestra on top of the giant curved mirrored roof of our building. It all came off ok in the end thankfully and the photos are beautiful. But I'm still drowning in paper.

As previously reported, my little sister moved to London town and somehow my other half and I volunteered to take a car load of her stuff down for her over the weekend. Cue a total of 16 hours on the road and a diet that consisted completely of service station sandwiches and coffee. Plus the odd Malteaser or two. Mmmm, Malteasers. The roadtrip was like Death Race 2000 in places...killer motorbikes stalking us; obliterated caravans by the side of the road; the delays from hell. And my sister had me sleeping on her flat's floor in what can only be described as some sort of black body bag. I felt like Meryl Streep in the morgue in Death Becomes Her. ('These are the moments that make life worth living' - a fantastic quote from that film!) Being drugged to the eyeballs on Lemsips for a rotten sore throat didn't help, either. But, 'twas fun and a nice time was had by all.

Think I just need to sleep and replenish my creative juices. Ewww, that sounded wrong. Pass me a Tia Maria and coke, someone. And maybe a comfy pillow. Please?