Encounter with an authentic Nu Yoik character.

We wander into a Greenwich village vintage store and almost immediately get caught up in the onslaught of the proprietor’s relentless anecdotes. He’s regaling a disinterested employee about his days in Vegas, rubbing shoulders with gambler extraordinaire Kerry Packer or, as this garrulous dickhead prefers to call him, Carey Packard. His stories go nowhere, at high volume. Inevitably we get sucked in. I try on a skirt – it’s a loose wrap type thing with adjustable ties which looks like it might be forgiving of my imminent pregnancy heft. I make the mistake of mentioning this to Mr Crap Anecdote. He lurches towards me. “Ya know how I know you’re pregnant?” Er because I just told you, genius? “It’s all HERE” he says, pointing vigorously at the bridge of my nose. Apparently, it gets broader in pregnant women. And he should know, he has three daughters, all of whom, I imagine, are overjoyed that he's such an expert on the physiological changes during pregnancy. Interestingly, he didn’t explain how he could tell that the bridge of my nose was broader, having never met me before. But I suppose being a pathological bullshit artist means never having to explain yourself. Then, with a theatrical flourish of the hand that makes him look like some kind of Brooklyn Gandalf, he declares, “It’s a boy!” Great. If he’s wrong, he says, I should call him up and he’ll buy me lunch. We both know that I would be more likely to stuff live cockroaches into my ears than to claim my lunch, so he’s pretty safe in making the offer.

Boobs

And still they grow. It’s starting to get comical. I hauled off my t-shirt last night to get into bed and S broke into a spontaneous round of applause. “It’s like you’ve had a really good boob job!” he said, appreciatively. This from the man who puts plastic surgery somewhere between genocide and child trafficking in his list of the world’s evils. This morning, as I took a shower after an attempt at a run, S came into the bathroom on the pretence of handing me a towel, but really motivated, he admitted, by the urge to take another look at my alien knockers. Enjoy them while you can. I rather imagine the effect will be somewhat spoiled when they have a mewling infant dangling from them for twenty hours a day.

Cheese brain

I read fairly recently that a scientist claims to have disproved the phenomenon of pregnancy related amnesia. 'Egg head negs preg head' should have been the headline, but wasn't, unfortunately. This man - it would have to be a man - claims that there is no proof that pregnant women are more likely to leave their keys in the fridge or the dog in the supermarket than anyone else. The subtext being, 'get it together lardy and stop blaming your foetus for your own stupidity'.

I beg to differ. I realise that my sample group (me before pregnancy vs me during pregnancy)is less than ideal. But i can categorically state that I never forgot the word potato in my pre-pregnant state. Nor did i find myself staring vacantly into cubboards, fridges and the like, vainly trying to remember what it was that I needed. I rarely lost the ability to add up. I, who until recently could list all of Angelina Jolie's ludicrously named offspring, in order of stupidity (the names, not the kids) actually blanked on their mother's name for a good minute. My memory has become a treacherous place, riddled with black holes and quicksand that suck away the words I'm looking for. I have to navigate a precarious, circuitous route in order to get where I need to go. Say, for example, I blanked on the name of an actor, for the sake of argument let's say Robin Williams. I can see his stupid gurning face in my mind vividly, mocking me, but the name eludes me. So I rack my brains to remember his film titles. And draw a blank (the panic is setting in). There was that fuck awful thing where he was a lovable android. And that piece of shit set in the afterlife. And that thing with Matt Damon. Matt Damon! Now I'm getting somewhere. So now I have to check Matt Damon's IMBD listing, until I find the film - Good Will Hunting - then scan down the cast list until I find the name - Robin Bastard Williams.

So forgive me for being blunt, science guy, but prenancy-related cheese brain most definitely does exist. So whay don't you go and stick that up your ...um... whatchamacallit... you know, thingy.

The attack of Twat Dad

So, you know that rush of hormone-based goodwill that is meant to cushion the sharp edges of the world and send pregnant ladies floating around on a cloud of happy thoughts? Seems to have passed me by. So far, my pregnancy has simmered along in my usual default state of low level irritation and occasional blinding rage. But can you blame me, when there are people like Twat Dad bouncing around?

I had to have a meeting with an obstetrician this week. Not actually sure why – she asked me why she was seeing me and I was lost for words. Um, because I’m old? Anyway. As usual, the hospital was running late. Several hours late, for some people. The mums were dealing with it stoically and silently, flicking through magazines and muttering to each other. Then in gambols Twat Dad. He’s the most showily, noisily attentive father I have ever seen. It’s like the world is one giant fucking CBeebies audition. His heavily pregnant wife looks like she would rather rip her own ears off than listen to him for a moment longer – and I can imagine the entire waiting room of mellow pregnant ladies rising up and tearing him limb from limb, rather like the climactic moment in Suddenly Last Summer.

Long-suffering mum is tied up at the reception desk trying to straighten out a mistake with her appointment, meanwhile Twat Dad is working his toddler into a state of shrieking, pant-wetting excitement by hurling him around the waiting room. Next he decided to read the kid a story. At full volume. It’s the book of In The Night Garden, so for the next five minutes we’re treated to a shrieked commentary on the activities of the Ninky Nonk. Even the kid gets a little bored and tries to persuade Twat Dad to read something else. “Not Bob The Builder,” Says Twat Dad, “I think Bob The Builder is a bit of a loser, don’t you?” The kid looks nonplussed. He clearly loves Bob The Builder. I’m tempted to step in at this point and ascertain why, exactly, Bob The Builder is a ‘loser’. Is it because Bob makes his living from manual labour? Come the apocalypse you’ll be wishing little Milo had some practical skills rather than a career in middle management or teaching method acting workshops in West Hampstead or whatever the fuck it is YOU do.

Long-suffering mum has had enough. She whispers a few sharp words to Twat Dad. He huffs a little and says, in an annoying sing song voice loud enough for the entire waiting room to hear, “Out with anger, in with love.” I glance around the waiting room. Come on ladies, who’s with me? Let’s take this fucker out of the gene pool once and for all.

fashion schmashion

Today I bought my first smock, and thus ventured into the terrifying world of ‘maternity fashion’. Which, if you think about it, is a ludicrous concept. What it boils down to, surely, is just voluminous, egg-shaped tents in various colours. So adding the idea of fashion into the mix is one head-fuck too far for hormone addled mums-to-be. This year’s fashionable colours are, according to some witless drivel I read on the internet, pale lilacs and pastel pinks. Christ. Isn’t pregnancy tough enough already? Another trend is the all-in-one pregnancy boiler suit, an abomination which is clearly designed by someone who didn’t feel the need to pee roughly every 12 minutes.

The only pregnancy fashion statement that would actually make sense to me would be a gigantic, attention-grabbing hat. Something that screams, I AM MORE THAN JUST A BUMP! Something to remind people where my head is, when it looks like little more than a peanut floating on a vast mound of walrussy blubber. But for the time being, I’ll make do with my smock.

Words of comfort

From lovely L, when I confessed to feeling a bit on the panicky side:

"My parents had my brother sleep in the bottom drawer of a chest of drawers for the first 18 months of his life – then he upgraded to a cupboard… No joke. If those idiot hippies can make it work, you guys have got no problems."

The cutest thing EVER

S and I are staying with our friends L&T in the country for the weekend. I’ve met their gorgeous little boy quite a few times before but I last saw their daughter E when she was just a few months old. She’s now eighteen months and utterly, utterly adorable.

We’re all gathered in the kitchen in the morning, talking about what to eat for supper. We encourage little E to pick recipe books, which she does, enthusiastically grabbing a Thai cookbook and thumbing through it on the floor with an expression of deep concentration. We chat about Thai food and somebody mentions the word ‘lemon grass.’ From under the table, a little voice pipes up, echoing what we’re saying ‘Lemon grass!’ We cheer. Her mum gets her to name other Thai ingredients. She makes a decent attempt at ‘galangal’ and ‘fish sauce’ but star anise comes out as ‘ ta neeeese’. I’m SO impressed. I can’t wait to hothouse little Ingeborg with the names of obscure ingredients. Perhaps I’ll teach her to name wines: ‘Riesling! Sancerre! Amarone! Valpolicella!’ And for a finale, I’ll teach her to say ‘Gewürztraminer!’ Perhaps she’ll even be able to tell me how to pronounce it.