January 8th, 2010

The first indication that Something Is Up is not so much the elusive period (chalked up as a body clock anomaly or, more likely, a consequence of my complete inability to add up), as the fact that I keep falling over. Suddenly, I’m eating the pavement on a regular basis. I trip over plant pots, kerb stones and – several times a day – my own feet. We even get a discount from a guest house after I plough through their floral display and end up with my clogs waving in the breeze and my bum in the gutter. This makes some of our tougher mountain walks something of a challenge.

My theory is that my swollen boobs have disrupted my centre of gravity. I ask the husband – “Do they look bigger?” He gets that glazed, rabbit in the headlights look. This kind of a question is a minefield of potential wrong answers. “No” means he clearly doesn’t pay enough attention to my bangers to notice the difference. “Yes” and there’s always the risk that I’ll counter with something mad like “…so you think I’ve put on weight? Is that it? Is it?” In the end he says, very reasonably, that they maybe a little bigger, but of course, he’s not the one wearing them. I’ll say. If he was sporting these throbbing pillows of agony, you can bet we wouldn’t be anywhere near a mountain.