I was absolutely dreading my antenatal class on Saturday. The thought of birth videos, synchronised breathing and mom-bonding completely freaked me out. This whole having to push a baby out thing is just becoming far too real. My fear is comprised of many elements but a large part of it is the uncertainty and the lack of control (I won’t even mention the pain … oh the pain) that envelops the act of birth. Much to my relief, antenatal class went a long way to quelling some of the fear relating to the whole ‘WTF am I supposed to do’ part – without birthing videos and the accompanying crap that I had assumed would formulate the class. (more…)

You gotta love metalheads! Last night I, along with my 34 week pregnant belly, went to a Paradise Lost gig at Islington Academy in London – as fan and music journalist. So whilst the husband and his photo pass were hanging out with the important peeps up front, I made my way upstairs – wisely thinking that my baby girl, although a fan of Paradise Lost, would not appreciate being crunched against a hoard of sweaty metallers for two hours. Luckily there was a nice comfy couch with my name written all over it, so I sat my ass down to wait for the metal masters of doom and gloom to inflict their brilliance on the night. (more…)

To say that I am afraid is the understatement of a lifetime. Petrified, terrified and horrified are better adjectives but even they don’t come close to describing the fear that is slowly but surely permeating Pleasantville. In approximately ten week’s time (actually nine week’s and 3 day’s time – if all goes as planned), a baby with long arms and a big belly, judging by the measurements taken at today’s scan, will be squeezing its way down my birth canal. Oh woe! woe! woe! is me. My lamentation cannot be reckoned with. I have spent the last twenty-seven years avoiding doctors and it seems that at least two decade’s worth of irrational fear is going to culminate in one moment consisting of many hours (literal or figurative, or both) of pain and humiliation. Did I say “Woe is me” already? (more…)

My 22 week anomalies scan happened 7 weeks ago and I am still haunted. The word anomaly is enough to put the fear of potential ‘mutancies’ into any normal run of the mill mom. Just say it to yourself: anomaly … anomaly … anomaly – my baby is anomalous **shudder**. And then pluralise it: anomalies **double shudder**. Great!

On my second visit to the scanographer, memories of my first scan plague my mind. The first time the scanographer put the scanny-thing (I prefer ’scanny-thing’ to probe thank you very much) on my belly at fourteen weeks, I literally had one eye shut and the other half open – thinking that perhaps I had imagined being pregnant: perhaps my body had been playing tricks on me and nothing would be there. Well, the little jumping jelly-bean on screen dispelled those fears rather rapidly. And I left thanking my body for being most reliable. This time, for the anomalies scan, I also had one eye half closed as I anticipated a third leg, missing arm or perhaps a horn sprouting from my baby’s forehead. The third leg thing is way weird (I mean there’s no way I would be able to sew three-legged trousers) but the whole one-armed unicorn baby thing would be totally manageable – I am definitely qualified to file down a horn and cut off a sleeve. After all my worrying, what three and a half hours of scan revealed … yes, three and a half hours … is that we are having a little girl **yay** who is as stubborn as her mother, and that I have no need to sew or file or cut as of yet. (more…)

We knew it was the Robin Hood tree as soon as we saw it! There it was: standing in all its glory next to the historical aura of Hadrian’s Wall in Northumberland. But Yvonne just didn’t believe us … so, in fact, she was the cause of all the trouble that was soon to follow.

What Robin Hood tree you may ask? If you have never watched a gloriously evil Alan Rickman and a gloriously valiant Kevin Costner battle it out in Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, do yourself a favour and watch it. If you have had the privilege, then cast your mind back to the beginning of the film when Robin of Locksley (Kevin Costner) and his friend Azeem (Morgan Freeman) have escaped captivity and arrived back in England after fighting in the Crusades. As Mr Hood and his new friend cross over Locksley land, they encounter a boy in a tree (the tree) who is trying to save himself from the Sheriff of Nottingham’s (Alan Rickman) bloodthirsty troops and dogs. There is an old wall in the scene (Hadrian’s wall) that Robin Hood skips down as Azeem kneels to pray and … blah blah blah … watch the film. (more…)

Half way. And how do I feel? Um … the same as I felt a month ago, and the month before that and the month before that. In fact, the same as I felt six months ago. In five-ish months a little life will be sucking on the nipples of my soon-to-be sack-like breasts. It’s a mind-fuck. I mean, I always thought that I would feel pregnant when I was pregnant – whatever that may mean. But I feel the same as I have always felt – not that I am complaining. I am still walking 40 minutes to work and back (each way please note) and I am still going to raucous metal gigs. Tonight I am going to stand at The Globe for three and a half hours to watch Troilus and Cressida, after which I will revel in a cup of delicious coffee and some truffles. (more…)

Recently I was accosted with a vision that went something like this: me, lying on a hospital bed with my legs sprawled marinating in my own placenta juices. Like a pickled onion in beetroot sauce. Disgusting. I am repeatedly told that “birth is beautiful”. In spite of the fact that I have the maternal instinct of a flea I am happy to acknowledge that babies are beautiful. But birth. What planet are people living on? Birth is pretty damn yuck. How can episiotomies, stitches, blood, umbilical chords, forceps, injections and pain be beautiful. Associating pain and grossness with beauty sounds pretty masochistic to me. Life is beautiful. Producing life is miraculous. Giving birth may be both miraculous and beautiful theoretically and romantically but certainly not practically and realistically. It’s painful, it’s gross and it’s humiliating. Nope, I have never given birth but I am not about to delude myself into thinking it pleasant and beautiful in any way. I like to call it keeping it real. It is this very philosophy that has dictated the abandonment of my usual ‘cut the bullshit keep it real’ attitude for a brief sojourn in Pleasantville that will end, rather unpleasantly I am sure, on December 17th 2009. (more…)

Who would have thought that a blue balloon was so multifunctional? This is a discovery I made one hot Saturday afternoon whilst walking along Oxford Street. It was on this hot Saturday that I was reminded, for at least five consecutive hours, why I grew up with two brothers: to train me for my husband.

An invaluable lesson I learned as a child is the principle of annoyance: the greater the reaction of the annoyee, the more fun is had by the annoyer. The converse is also true: the smaller the reaction of the annoyee, the less fun is had by the annoyer. The annoyer relies on a significant reaction for the annoyee’s response to qualify as annoyance. If the annoyee is nonchalant (even if feigned), annoyance is not achieved and the annoyer is thus rendered unsuccessful. I have applied this principle for many years and it is one of the cornerstones of my role as a sister. (more…)

As I queue outside South Africa House awaiting my turn to vote, my gaze falls upon Nelson’s Column and the proud Trafalgar lions, and I am forced to take cognisance of the moment’s significance. The magnificence of the great British Empire is made tangible by her symbols of might and power that rest just beyond my vision – Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, the Houses of Parliament. Amidst this grandeur I wait to perform the seemingly menial task of placing a mark on a paper. Yet a collection of these marks will determine the future of a nation. A nation previously choked by the colonial rule of the very empire under whose authority I presently exist. (more…)

The guardian.co.uk has published a great article entitled The celebrity cult of SpongeBob, which describes SpongeBob as a “ridiculously popular children’s cartoon that one imagines was dreamt up while under the influence”. The article delves into the topical issue of SpongeBob’s sexuality, as brought to the fore by Christian fundamentalists. Is Patrick his boy crush or not? Writer Hadley Freeman argues, “The fact that sexual congress would, presumably, be difficult between a sponge and a piece of ocean life (particularly as the sponge is incapable of removing his squarepants) has not dented their horror a jot”, to which an observant reader retorts, “You’ve never watched it have you[?] Spongebob is a sponge, also a sea creature. And he often takes off (or loses) his pants to comic effect”. In this light, take not of the sociological definition of cult: “a group with a high degree of tension with the surrounding society combined with novel religious beliefs”. (more…)