Yup, that’s me. Fatso. That’s the first clue.
Here’s the second : puko. Which is why I’ve been away for so long. Actually, the pukey bit tailed off nearly a month ago, leaving me feeling simply nauseated all day. Have you guessed yet? … I know one of my first posts this year stated loud and proud that I would not be putting a bun in the oven this year, but there you have it, a bun the size of an avocado is indeed rising in my oven and has been making me feel decidedly off writing, not to mention getting out of bed and prising open my eyes. Yup, this is the last time I do the pregnancy thing, and that very thought is one of the things that has been helping me drag myself through the last two months. I should be feeling better soon though, as all the books, midwives, gynaecologists and internet sites say. “Come the second trimester you’ll be full of energy, glowing with beauty, feeling fantastic.” I’m nearly 17 weeks preggars though. When will I, will I feel fabulous? I’m wondering who I can sue.
So, I seem to be back, and seeing as from tomorrow onwards and for an entire week I’ll be on holiday in Malaga with nothing more strenuous to do than making sure Tommy doesn’t leap into the pool without any armbands on (I’m thinking of putting them on him the moment he wakes up and leaving them on until he hits the sack), I shall hopefully get back into this writing lark. In fact, it should be my priority as I’m wondering how on earth I’m going to earn my living in a year’s time with a 6 month old and a 4 year old to juggle in the middle of the Ardèche countryside. Writing seems a sensible thing to do. Dance projects and huge tours across France’s national theatre network have just been seriously pissed upon. I only have myself to blame so I shall stop whinging and admit that I’m secretly very excited to have a second baby. I just hope this one signs the “I-will-sleep-through-the-night-from-the-age-of-6-weeks” contract I’ve drawn up.