You get grunge and then you get grunge. And then you get Camden grunge. I am the mom of a totally adorable (if I may say so myself) 9-month-old baby girl. Everyone loves her… including the hobos, the dustbin-diggers, the unbathed, the toothless, the druggies, the drunkards and the mentally challenged – all of whom inhabit the wonderful town of Camden, where I live. Before I proceed, I need to say that: I love North London, I love Camden and I am of the firm belief that babies are for sharing (not in a gross paedophile way but in an ‘aah sweet, look at the lovely baby’ kind of way). The privilege of being a parent does not form everyone’s lot in life and I am well aware that motherhood is, indeed, a privilege. The aforementioned life-philosophies that share space in my brain with the ‘I will never live in South London’ philosophy, have placed me in a predicament. Babies bring delight to so many and what kind of person denies the odd head-stroke or hand-touch? Except when the Camden grunge are concerned. Camden grunge has nothing to do with torn stockings, Dr Martins and over-sized dresses, but rather, old food, dirt and oil. Let me explain.

One day I was sitting happily on the bus, my daughter Amelia was sitting on my lap casually surveying the 134 commuters going about their daily… commuting. A very tall, old man, who was struggling to walk, climbed onto the bus and sat down opposite me and Amelia. Amelia batted her gorgeous big blue eyes and Mr Old Man was besotted. As Amelia proceeded to gnaw on her finger, a favourite past time, Mr Oldy proceeded to tell me in no uncertain terms that Amelia was teething and that as Chamomile is known for its ability to soothe, I should rub some on her gums. I stored this reasonable piece of advice in my memory bank for further investigation. As I was contemplating the drool that had escaped Amelia’s mouth and was making its way down towards my arm, I saw Mr Oldy’s hand reaching out… what was I to do? Some random old guy touching my baby is just not cool, and even as that protective mommy instinct kicked in I second guessed myself: Mr Oldy is just a sweet old man reliving his youth by squeezing the hand of an infant, perhaps hoping for some supernatural beam of light to whisk him back to his childhood. My uncertainty (and imagination) won and Mr Oldy goochie-gooed as he clasped my baby’s hand. My well-mannered upbringing told me to resist the urge to haul out a wipe and rub the germs well off. The moment passed, I exited the bus, wiped Amelia’s drool/germ infested hand hoping that she has not put it in her mouth but I am sure that I am too late, and headed on my way. As the days passed, the incident took a back seat in my mind until… until one day, whilst making my way down the high street, I saw Mr Oldy with his hand in a dustbin. Perhaps he was just making extra sure that his rubbish made it into the bin? But no. Oldy is a digger. A dustbin digger. Oldy the Dustbin Digger touched my daughter’s hand, she put her hand in her mouth. I am gagging just about now. The guilt set in. Should I have asked Oldy not to touch my child? Would the request be disrespectful if I was polite? Then again, who cares about respect when Amelia’s well-being is at stake. Who knows what was on Oldy’s hand. Right about now, I make my way to Pleasantville, where dustbin-digging old men don’t touch babies’ hands.

I would like to say that my experience of Camden grunge ends there but it does not. There was the lady with the nails; yellow, chipped, broken and harbouring last night’s dinner, who reached out to touch Amelia but I think even Amelia was unsure of Mrs Nails and she quickly whipped her chubby little fingers out of reach. There was Mrs Crazy who, at the decibel range of a large aircraft, called me an unfit mother and bellowed profanities at me for half a mile as I walked slowly… and then speedily away from her. Madame Oil, had in all likelihood, not washed her hair in a decade and I thank heaven above that all she did was send a few syllables Amelia’s way. There was no touching. There was also Plaster Lady. Plaster Lady is named after the giant piece of gauze taped to her head – that should have been a clue. She was overwhelmingly, enthusiastically, exuberantly (plus the rest of the applicable adjectives in the dictionary) excited about Amelia. It all went down in the lift at Tufnell Park tube station. Amelia just had to go and bat her baby blues and Plaster Lady squealed (literally) with delight and proceeded to have a conversation with my baby in a high-pitched tone that would surely have broken any glass had we not been in a lift. I noticed the people around us shift uncomfortably… and then I saw it; a hand, reaching out. Not again! Seriously. What should I do? As with Oldy, that protective mom instinct kicked in. But poor Plaster Lady. Surely a little hand squeeze is harmless. Amelia brings me so much joy, surely I should allow her to deliver the same happiness to others. Maybe plaster Lady is not able to have children of her own. Yet again, uncertainty won. I have yet to see Plaster Lady digging in any bins.

I have a responsibility, as a mom, to protect my child – as far as possible. But I am also polite and do not want to hurt the feelings of others unnecessarily. My daughter is no worse for wear after being handled by some of Camden’s grunge. And maybe calling an old homeless man grunge is not politically correct but sometimes, as a parent, we can’t afford to be politically correct. I am going to have to teach my child ‘stranger danger’ at some point yet at the same time I do not want her to go through life void of trust. Not all people are out to get her. London is a city that commands its citizens to be street-wise. And while the beautiful people of Camden Town will teach my daughter acceptance and tolerance, I need to instil in her a sense of compassion touched with a pinch (maybe a handful) of savvy. I’ll keep you updated.

I went to the park with my baby girl and some gal pals the other day and came back with a whole bunch of little red bites all over my feet. These ‘bites’ had spread to my ankles the following day. Considering I had not been in the park for 24 hours and the bites had multiplied and certainly looked bite-ish as opposed to rash-ish, I was a tad distressed. I showed my husband my ailment in the hope of some sympathy and a little comfort. His version of sympathy went as follows: “you probably have that thing where those spiders lay their eggs under your skin and then hatch”. Hilarious. Luckily the little bites disappeared, slowly but surely, and just when I was getting over the idea of bird-eating tarantulas bursting forth form my skin in a scene reminiscent of Alien, my dad (privy to my misfortune) so generously delivered me an article entitled “Beware of the Superfly with a taste for humans” Daily Mail, Thursday, July 29, 2010.

The article describes a vampiric fly that has a taste for human blood and is responsible for “a surge of infected insect bites that [have] left some victims hospitalised”. These small horrors have recently become tired of their prosaic country lifestyle and have been magnetized by the bright lights (and increasing number of water features) of the big city, inspiring a recent migration spurt. The concrete jungle is no longer a bug repellent and city dwellers have to be on their guard. The vampire-insect of which I speak is known as The Blandford Fly. It is a water dweller and is described as “small, dark and dangerous”. According to the article, the little terrors “are small enough to crawl through fabric and clothing to attack the flesh. Females use their lacerated mouths to chew through the skin and feed on blood just before mating. They prefer the taste of human blood to animal blood – and ankles and feet are their favourite targets”. So maybe The Blandford Fly has mutated to a grass dwelling creature with a sweet pair of fangs, and on my picnic day managed to eat through the leather of my Dr Martens 16-up boots to bite my poor feet… and then nested in my shoes so that when I wore them the next day my ankles served as Blandford fly lunch. Bring on Ripley: Master (or Mistress) of extermination.

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.

Naturally there were cringe-worthy moments that included information relating to the choice between third- and fourth-degree tears or an episiotomy; the release of meconium (common if the baby is overdue) that will make your breaking waters a lovely green colour; and an informal demonstration done with an epidural needle – a very long epidural needle. The uncomfortable but necessary discussion of the aforementioned was well compensated by the class instructor’s raggedy baby doll and its scrappy umbilical cord, which was repeatedly passed through a demonstration pelvis to show the class what happens during labour – it was like a weird black comedy/horror in which a demon baby attempts to dismantle the bone structure of its mother. I loved it! I also managed to find out what happens to the faecal matter (poo to the layman) that will undoubtedly be let loose in the birthing pool during a water-birth – something that has been plaguing my mind for weeks as I consider my options. Well, a sieve is used to remove it – the hospital does provide sieves or you can bring your own. Good to know. Note to self: do not consume prunes during labour – mushy poo will require more than one sieve and more manpower, which may prove inconvenient. I learnt some breathing techniques to help me relax, which is sure to accompany large quantities of gas and air in my case. And boy do I love the British: the ‘panting‘ breathing technique was discussed in a conservative manner that suited me just fine – there was none of this American-movie-lamaze-class rubbish with women weezing and “he…he…he-ing” all over the place; otherwise Mr Exit and I would have made very good friends.

Ultimately, antenatal class reminded me there is in fact a limit to the preparation one can do for an event that remains largely incomprehensible until after the fact. And although head-burying serves its purpose, knowledge is helpful. So here’s my theory: file the knowledge whilst I bury my head – then I’ll call on that knowledge when it is needed (hoping that it isn’t too dusty) and let instinct guide it. Give me 4 weeks and I’ll let you know how this works for me.

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.

After doodling in my notebook for about half an hour, with opener Katatonia blasting away in the background, the dude next to me (aka Mr Metal) offered me a drink – I politely declined. He then asked me what magazine I write for: my little black notebook being a dead giveaway. Side note: pregnancy has forced me to upgrade my typical note-taking and setlist scribbling style that usually involves scrawling on scraps of paper and old movie stubs, dug out of my bag in a frenzy whilst gyrating around with the masses, to a more subdued form of comprehendible sentence construction formulated in my little black book – clearly method two makes me seem more important. Anyway, I told him about ClinkMusicMagazine (the online mag I do some freelancing for) and the ensuing conversation progressed from a discussion about Paradise Lost to metal to gigs to babies.

Mr Metal is married with three boys: his wife is into Cliff Richard and Boyzone and his sons are mini-metalheads who spend their time moshing to System of a Down in their bedrooms. After conversing for fifteen minutes, I established that we have completely different metal repertoires and that it would probably be a bad idea to get into an argument about Rammstein with Paradise Lost due to play in ten minutes. When Mr Metal asked me if I am going to watch Slayer at the end of November, I pushed out my pregnant belly as I told him that Slayer is not really my thing and that my baby may not appreciate being born at a Slayer concert even though it would make a great story (which may well happen at the Killswitch Engage/In Flames gig I am going to on December 2). And that’s when the baby advice started. Mr Metal gave me the whole ‘mediocrity is a bunch of BS’ speech and informed me that it is totally okay to be extreme with babies: take them to watch rugby matches, dress them in black if you like, play them metal straight after birth – instil in them a sense of extremism that defies the fearful mediocre stance adopted by most of society. I thought that I was speaking to a dude version of me: it was kind of a weird moment but it reminded me of why I love metal so much.

As defined by society, metal is an extreme genre that bows to an ethos of defiance and thus tends to attract extremists oozing passion, obsession and opinion. Metalheads can be annoying as arguments about the musical credibility of bands and artists can go on for hours but that’s what metal is about. A sense of arrogant intellectualism often characterises members of the metal fraternity who believe themselves to be a part of a radical movement that defies social norms. Unfortunately, the ironic notion of being part of a collective – as a member of society and as a member of the metal brotherhood – undermines the notion of metal existing as a defiant culture, and this ambiguity often remains lost to metalheads. But this is a topic for another day. What struck me on this night was how the equivocal essence of metal is physically manifested at gigs, which are physical enactments of how the sense of intellectual superiority, created through the supposed exclusivity of the metal genre, is rendered ironic through the barbarism that accompanies this attitude. As Paradise Lost accosted the stage, the evening’s conversation was lost to an impassioned madness, as Mr Metal proceeded to air guitar, sing out of tune and inform me of the name of every song the band played – I let him have his moment and love metal all the more for it.

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?

I have been to a Doctor twice in my life: at the age of seven I was taken to the Doctor to receive an inoculation against hepatitis – I hid under the Doctor’s table and my dad had to drag me out and hold me down so that I could be injected; and the second time was when, at sixteen, I burnt my leg on the exhaust of a motorcycle – the plasters I used to try and hide the wound from my mom proved redundant when Roxanne Gibb tattle-tailed and I ended up at a stupid Doctor anyway, who told me that I would probably need a skin graft. Ha ha, funny joke. So let’s just say that pregnancy has forced me out of my comfort zone and as the final test looms before me, my inclination is to run … very far but not very fast, thanks to my steadily growing baby-bump.

When it comes to ‘comfort zones’, I do adopt a philosophical attitude; I ardently believe that most of life’s best experiences are lived when rejecting the familiar in favour of that which is initially uncomfortable. So I am well aware that birth is an unpleasant means to a rewarding end. But my intellect and my emotions are constantly waging war against one another. I know that ‘women have been doing this for years’ … blah blah blah, but in my current frame of mind, it makes not an iota of difference to me. I still have to go through it and I am feeling very sorry for myself. Fuck feminism, and female strength and fortitude. I am fear personified right now. Admittedly, it was probably not the best idea to have invested the last month in Tudor history; reading about the fifty-million failed child-bearing experiences of Henry viii’s six wives. In the familiar head versus heart battle that characterizes my existence , the fact that sixteenth century hygiene was worse than appalling only registers as a microcosm in my thought process when I contemplate the tragic death of poor Jane Seymour.

At 32 weeks I am still feeling physically fabulous, in spite of some blossoming water retention in my legs, but I cannot say the same for my mental stability as enemas, episiotomies, placentas, blood, gore and guts permeate my thoughts. Most who know me will, however, be aware that a great deal of the time my mind tends to hang out in some pretty strange places with some pretty weird peeps, so my claim to slight insanity will be of no surprise. Whilst waiting for my scan appointment this afternoon, a man wearing some ominous looking black cyborg-ish gear emerged from one of the Doctor’s rooms and proceeded to follow a host of people down the corridor. I leaned over to my husband and asked with interest if he thought that there was a bomb in the hospital as the man with the gear looked like a bomb-detector. My husband looked at me as if I had fallen out the nearest tree and amidst his laughter told me that the device strapped to the man was in fact a camera. Naturally, it never occurred to me that there is no way that I would be sitting in a waiting room with ten other people had the hospital received a bomb threat. I think my baby is cannibalising my brain cells. I have also been having a recurring dream in which I birth kittens. This probably relates to the fact that my ‘mothering instinct’ is more inclined toward the feline species than an actual human child. The kittens I birth in my dreams are always black, although on one occasion I did birth a black and white kitten – probably linked to the fact that I had to abandon my poor black and white cat when I moved to London. I also had a black cat that was mauled by the dog next door – perhaps I subconsciously think that my baby is the reincarnation of my long deceased kitty. As I get all Freudian on myself why not throw breast-feeding into the mix – I intend to try it, and I intend to try and express milk as well, which means … breast pump. The thought of milking myself like a cow is positively less than appealing so I at least intend to do it with an electric pump as opposed to a manual pump. And then one has to start thinking about breast pads, nipple cream and nipple caps – alien devices that cause me to cringe upon mention. All this paraphernalia and advice about what gadgets I do need and don’t actually need causes a real pain in the brain. I am just going to do things my own way: mistakes will be character building for both baby and mother … and that’s what I’m sticking to.

I have given myself permission to ‘keep it real’ and I intend to wallow in self-pity for as long as I choose. Having another being inhabit one’s body is a very strange thing, and pregnancy elicits a host of uncomfortable and unwarranted invasions – physically, emotionally and intellectually. In some moments, the excitement of meeting my baby girl and being a mom is overwhelming, and in other moments, the fear of childbirth engulfs me. These conflicting emotions are what I like to call ‘being human’ although the intensity thereof is probably magnified by womanhood, never mind pregnancy. So, my frank thoughts, whilst they may worry and upset others, do not upset me; being honest with myself is paramount and the denial thereof is detrimental.

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.

An ‘anomalies scan’ means that every part of the baby is checked thoroughly. My baby cooperated nicely … in the beginning. She moved and posed beautifully for the scanographer, and even did a yoga move by putting her toe in her mouth, making her father giddy with excitement. But then she decided that being cooperative is not as much fun as sleeping. She refused to show her fifth finger, her right leg and her spine, neck and skin. So I was prodded and poked and shaken, and after two hours of having my poor belly exposed and manipulated, the scanographer declared that as the baby was refusing to budge, she may as well do the cervical exam. May as well do the cervical exam. I managed to restrain the “What the fuck is that for?” that has almost solidified on my lips, I took a breath and euphemised my expression to “is that common practice?” To which the very nice scanographer replied that it was, and that most women did have it as it was useful in determining the risks of pre-term delivery but that it was an individual choice. So while I contemplated having an object shoved up my vag, I figured, what the fuck … I have to push a freaking baby out in six months, I may as well get used to the humiliation and degradation of having my genitals exposed. So I agreed to the damn exam. The scanographer whipped out something that looked like a dildo – and all I could do was control my language and hope to the Lord God Almighty that I have a loose vag if that thing has to go in it. She then told me to remove my pants and wrap myself in a sheet.

So there I am lying on the bed with my legs spread waiting for the giant dildo-thing to be inserted … to spare you the details, lets just say that Mr Dildo-thing did not have his way as only the tip is used to measure the birth canal. I do not understand the logistics of how the instrument is used; all I will say is “Thank You God! And apparently I have a 37mm cervix, which is good (for anyone that wants to know). Well done to me. So with the exam out of the way, we get back to the scan … and is baby cooperating? Hell no! After half an hour of trying, I am sent on a walk and instructed to ingest lots of sugar – basically to send the foetus on a sugar-rush so that she is glucosed into action. One would think that a giant Starbucks hot chocolate and muffin would send the baby into an epileptic fit as it frazzles the few brain cells she has developed – but noooo, on she happily sleeps. So I am then instructed to jump up and down, I am rolled and shaken and prodded yet again … to no avail. Here’s my theory: because my growing belly has been mistaken for a drum by my baby’s dad, our baby girl has developed a high tolerance of any form of external botheration.

Three and a half hours later we emerged into the real world with instructions to return in two morning’s time so that her spine, neck and skin can be checked for anomalous signs of mutancy … okay so the bit about anomalous signs of mutancy was left out. And I am glad to report that on my subsequent visit, my darling baby girl was perfectly positioned and her neck, skin and spine are all beautiful. The only mutancy lies in my single veined, single arteried umbilical cord, which usually has two arteries (and a single vein). So my poor baby may have to bite a hole in her cord and use it as a straw in the third trimester if she finds herself starving and unable to grow due to a deficiency in blood flow. I have another scan at 34 weeks so I’ll keep you updated.

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.

Back to the story: Yvonne did not believe that the tree we encountered on our adventure at Hadrian’s wall was the Robin Hood tree. But (haha haha) she was proved oh so wrong after hearing a plethora of excited comments from fellow adventurers trekking along the wall. The final nail was bashed into the coffin when a sweet old tour guide on our bus trip home stated “And I am sure I do not need to inform you about the famous tree on your right” – clearly poor Yvonne needed some informing, which Warren and I had given her most magnanimously.

A couple of days later we decided to walk back to the tree so that Yvonne could share in the poignancy of visiting so worthy a landmark. Having spent a lovely day purchasing Scottish Clan paraphernalia from the tartan shop in Gretna Green, we were far too lazy to walk up the hilly landscape to get to the tree, so, first mistake: we took a short cut along a path winding along the hillside. But poor, poor Yvonne is afraid of heights and so, second mistake: I suggested that we should perhaps cross the field at the bottom of the hill and walk on some low-lying land. Yvonne beamed an emphatic yes, so down we went. Warren, the leader of the pack, was most perturbed upon arriving at the bottom of the hill to discover that the field we so desired to cross was, in fact, a muddy marsh. Third mistake: I did not believe him – until the kid on the other side of the marshy field tried to cross, and half way through, like a surge of electricity, shot up in the air and fled back to the safety of yonder dry land. So we carried on walking along the side of the mountain, only to discover what looked like a path across the muddy marshland. Warren (although he may disagree but trust me, I am by far the more reliable source) suggested that we try and cross but that he had no intention of going first. Me, being the brave adventurer (aka stupid moron) that I am, relished the opportunity to demonstrate my feminine superiority. So, fourth mistake: I boldly took the first steps. **If anyone wants tips on how to piss their husband off, please continue reading with apt attention**

The path was pretty solid to begin with and I continued, fearlessly, to march along until my foot sunk knee deep into a pile of muddy, mushy, cow-patty stuff that smelt like the rotting corpses of the long-deceased Roman soldiers who guarded Hadrian’s Wall. I was then accosted with a vision of Atreyu (the horse in The Neverending Story) – sinking into a boggy marsh, never to see the light of day again. As I realised that I was about to be pulled into the depths of the sinking sand that was, at that very moment, eating my leg, all rationality dissipated. So, fifth mistake: I ran for my life because I thought I was going to die, and in the process managed to lose my shoe in the swamp of guts and stench. To my credit, I ran so fast that Warren and Yvonne thought that the ground was sufficiently solid and merrily proceeded to make their way across. By that time I was laughing so much that I couldn’t tell them not to ceoss – all I could do was scream “my shoe is gone!” At which point Warren began bellowing an interrogation across the swamp as he Spanish-Inquisitioned me about how the shit I lost my shoe – until he started to sink. Not envisioning his own death in the hungry swamp, the Italian in Warren erupted as the mystery of the missing shoe was solved: he realised that instead of turning back when I had started to sink, I had bundu-bashed foward and lost my shoe in the process. My attempt to justify my behaviour by explaining that I thought I was going to die like Atreyu the horse only made poor sinking Warren all the angrier, as he realised that the reason he was sinking into a swamp was because I thought I was going to die like a fantasy horse in a fantasy film. As Warren proceeded to combust, Yvonne screeched as she stumbled across my shoe, lying calmly on the path of death, and proceeded to throw it at me. And then it was all over for me: the sight of the stupid shoe flying through the stench-filled air, propelled by the steam emanating from Warren’s fuming person, as he and Yvonne battled the muddy jaws of a reedy swamp death was just too much for me. I laughed so hard I peed in my pants: I am NOT joking! Seriously! I peed myself. And then all I could say was “I peed in my pants” and “I’m not joking, I really peed in my pants.”

While I was busy laughing and peeing, Yvonne and Warren had made it to the other side and, in my state of incapacitation, Warren was forced to go and fetch my rediscovered shoe from a nearby pile of reeds that my poor-aiming friend had lobbed it into. So naturally the Italian then emerged to full capacity. Unfortunately, the more I laughed, the angrier poor Warren got. We proceeded to the Robin Hood tree in single file with a deathly silent Warren in the lead; a psychotic, drunk with laughter, staggering her way along behind him; and then Yvonne, at the back, trying to control bursts of hysteria. Let’s just say that our second Robin Hood tree experience was slightly tainted.

BUT WAIT, it gets better: the reason Warren was so mad (other than the obvious) was because his only pair of shoes had been destroyed by my retardation. It’s not like we could make a six hour trip back to our home in London to get some more. **oops** So when we drove to Scotland the next day, our plan was to stop off somewhere and get Warren some shoes. Sometimes plans don’t really work out. We drove a lovely scenic route, scenic meaning: “void of shoe shops.” Eventually, we got to the town of Sterling, where we planned to visit Robert the Bruce’s Sterling Castle. By the time we got there it was pouring with rain … and Warren still had no shoes. A series of narrow one-way streets forced us to park at the castle and our last ditch hope at finding shoes was the gift shop at the castle entrance. As we were walking there, I was praying “please God, let there be shoes” (and Yvonne was praying the same thing I found out afterwards), and lo and behold, I kid you not, Warren spotted a pair of trainers left on the edge of a dustbin. So I ran for the shoes, assuredly left for trash, which I discovered were not wet and were in quite good condition. If you didn’t believe in miracles before … ? So Warren wore some hobo’s size ten trainers for two days (Warren is a size seven) and then donated them to a charity shop in London for some other poor soul to make use of.

Now that this miraculous tale of woe and hysteria is over, I am sad to say that I will most likely be watching Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves alone for the rest of my life, and The Neverending Story is a definite no-mentioner. But I did learn three very important lessons: 1) better the steep, rocky path that you know, than the easier, gentler path that you don’t 2) under no circumstances is it wise to make an Italian angry, and 3) pregnancy and excessive laughter spell disaster.

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.

I have a teensy bump and still can’t fully grasp that there is a person (half-person) inside me glugging on my amniotic fluid. It (the baby) is still pretty much an ‘it’. That being said, I find myself unconsciously rubbing my little bulge – mainly to apologise to it for the loud music blasting my eardrums or for running to make it to the bus stop on time. I find myself prodding it to try and make it move. I think I feel it move but how would I know what a moving foetus feels like? I’m sure that the more maternal variety of woman screeched with joy when they felt the baby move for the first time – I still can’t tell the difference between gas and baby twitches.

Thanks to the fear-inducing crap spewed out by the media I am worried about stupid swine flu – I am not at all keen on birthing an antibiotic-induced mutant, unless it takes after Wolverine (which is quite possible: I am married to an Italian). In that case, “hello” swine flu. I also have daydreams that my baby is born looking like a chocolate jelly bean stained with msg. It’s most inconvenient that everything I eat now impacts another somebody else rather than just my ass and thighs.

Living on another continent does help with the unwarranted advice problem from the usual suspects, however, I have already been advised to refrain from my metal music as the baby will be stressed and will apparently need counselling in later years. I have been told that I should play it Mozart **yawn** instead. If metal = happy mom and mom = happy baby then … duh!!! Just five-ish months along, and my parenting skills have been challenged. I have also been advised by certain parties to stay in the hospital for five days after the baby is born and not to have Polish Doctors on my delivery team **sigh**. Thanks. Useful advice. Of course the NHS allows lengthy hospital sojourns as well as my own choice of doctor. WTF?

When I dream about the baby sometimes it’s a girl and other times it’s a boy. Funnily enough everyone has an opinion on what the sex of my baby will be … and I have no clue! Are moms supposed to have a sixth sense about this?

My man-chest has expanded quite successfully – my girls actually fit into my A-cup bra now. Exciting stuff! So I have cleavage for the first time in my existence and yet I can’t even wear a corset unless I want a baby looking like the bound feet of a 10th century Chinese woman. Not cool.

The only thing I find vaguely interesting about baby paraphernalia at the moment is the awesomely fluffy leopard-print babygrow that I discovered last weekend. Things that I might actually need, like a cot and some nappies, are far less interesting.

I have also come to be grateful for a wonderful mental invention called ‘baby-goggles’ (like beer-goggles) that allow parents to think their baby is attractive even though it may repulse onlookers. This little device has made me okay with the ‘what if I have an ugly baby’ thing. At least I will think the little guy (or gal) is beautiful. When people ask me how the baby’s doing my usual response is “Fine … I think” – it’s not like I have some X-ray vision that allows me to see into my abdomen. All I know for sure is that I feel great and that I love my baby. Beyond that lies a great mystery waiting to be uncovered.

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.

Please note that I am not saying that it’s not worth it. It being birth. I just said that it’s gross. When my little miracle of life is handed my way I am sure that the angels will chorus and the bright lights will shine as I have an epiphany of gratitude. It’s all very lovely and sentimental, but in no way negates the realities of childbirth. Although the gift of life certainly compensates for the realities of which I speak. I want to know why women are expected (mostly by other women) to euphemise childbirth? Certainly childbirth is different for every woman and perhaps those who are blind or comatose may find it beautiful but I am lucky enough to be gifted with a group of friends who do not hide behind the bullshit. They say it’s ugly and sore but they say that women do it again and again and that speaks volumes. Society seems to propagate the notion that out of respect for the women who have given birth I should ignore my fears and submerge reality beneath a masquerade of sentimentality straight out of an 18th century literary England. Mangled vaginas, stretch marks, sagging boobs and enemas are taboo topics. Birth seems to be viewed as some sacred ritual that must be observed with respect and dignity. The irony is like a punch in the gut, and the thought inspires me to vulgarity. Giving birth is anything but dignified.

Laura Stavoe Harm said: “We have a secret in our culture, and it’s not that birth is painful. It’s that women are strong.” In order to acknowledge the truth of this statement, in order to acknowledge the strength of womankind, the reality of childbirth must be acknowledged. Its grim realities should be realised rather than sentimentalised, in order to reveal the strength confirmed through suffering endured. Suffering in childbirth is a result of original sin yet God gave women the strength to bare it. That is beautiful.

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.

My skills as both annoyer and annoyee were honed by the persistence of two highly irritating younger brothers, who donned a human disguise most successfully during daylight hours in order to render my life a misery. It is to these two little monsters that I owe a debt of gratitude, for preparing me for one particular day. The day of the blue balloon. The horrifically hideous bugs that were thrown at me, the food that was smeared on me, the body standing in front of the television whilst Gummi Bears was on, the mocking of my fat thumb and big ass could not stand the strength of my iron stance of nonchalance. And I bare no grudges: it’s all in the nature of siblinghood after all. And some might say that I certainly gave as much as I received. Okay, maybe a couple of grudges are festering somewhere: only when big, sloppy green snollies **gag** and stringy spit came flying my way, did Kratos emerge and the beatings begin. In our twenties, the nature of siblinghood has matured into a more experimental phase: how many boogers and how much spit it takes for Kratos to emerge in a twenty-seven year old me, as opposed to a fifteen-year-old, ten-year-old or five-year old me. I am sure that the findings are fascinating.

Warren and his blue balloon provide a strong rival to spitsnot **gag**. Warren, for (and I will repeat) approximately FIVE hours, altered between beating me over the head with his blue balloon, shoving the plastic stick attached to his blue balloon up my ass, rubbing the blue balloon on by head to see how static my hair could become and bashing me in the face with the blue balloon every time I looked at him. I put up with this calmly as I wondered at the might of Warren’s persistence in his attempts to draw a reaction from me. But my lack of reaction did not deter Warren. It was like he had awakened to his life’s mission – to turn a perfectly innocent inanimate object into a demonic tool of torture.

It was only when we climbed on the bus to make our way home that the blue balloon and the hand holding it finally became too much for me. I finally reached the end of my tether. There was no Kratos, merely two married adults squabbling like four-year-olds. I snatched the cursed blue ballon, shoved my hand in Warren’s face and made his hair so static that he looked like Wayne Static without all the gel. I bashed him in the face repeatedly with his stupid ballon but alas, I am a mere woman and am no match for a weapon wielding psycho. It was only at the point where I decided to play dirty, by attacking his most prized posession (and mine as well actually), the man ceased his balloon harassment. He got tired of protecting his chommie.

I doubt that this is the end of this tale but know this oh blue balloon fiend: I am prepared for any red, green and purple friends that may be thrust my way in a fit of vengeance!

And PS: I love my husband and my brothers dearly.