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.

I have to go powder my nose…

How could I forget to mention my celebrity-stalking excitement?! (Let me just clarify: I didn’t really stalk anyone, she just happened to run into me once or twice. I’m not that much of a loon. And hush, before you retort.) This is the story I will be telling everyone until I die, I’m sure. I’ve already bored everyone at work with it and *blush* emailed the Heat Online ‘Spotted’ column. That’ll be me buying Heat magazine for the next couple of weeks to see if I made it in, then.

Anyhoo, after the plane journey from hell (it wasn’t too bad to be honest, but I only caught about an hour’s uncomfortable doze as the spotlight above me was broken. So, in a pitch black cabin, there was me sitting there like an utter mentalist highlighted with what felt like the main beam headlights of someone’s car) I was feeling pretty rough and trundled through departures to the EU line in passport control. Who should be in the US citizens queue to my left? Only Uma blimmin’ Thurman plus her children and nanny! I had to do a triple-take to confirm; but I’m happy to report that even in my bedraggled state and feeling pretty crumpled after the flight – my hair was in better nick than hers.

After standing next to her at baggage claim (coincidentally, I assure you) whilst pulling my moth-eaten little suitcase off the belt as her stacks of Louis Vuitton matching luggage were loaded onto a trolley, I then nipped to the loo in departures – and who should come in with her munchkins (two extremely cute blonde mini Ethan Hawkes)? I was silently giggling to myself in the stall next door as all three of them took turns to relieve themselves of all the free airline orange juice – then composed myself enough to go back out and exclaim to my confused Other Half that I’d ‘just heard Uma Thurman wee!’

A splendid end to a tremendous ten days. I'll never see Pulp Fiction in the same light again. (‘I said god damn! God damn..!’)