Utterly, utterly knackered today. We went to my cousin’s farewell barbecue last night – he and his family emigrate to New Zealand next week. I’m sure they’ll love it, and the New Zealanders will suddenly discover the dubious joys of owning a Weimaraner dog bred by my cousin.
I spent most of the party perched on a chair with my feet up, under orders from my aunties and cousins to relax and not upset the baby. But I did have the digital camera with me, and managed to take a few snaps when not being deluged with childcare advice. I was wearing my first set of maternity trousers – a pair of jeans from Next with an elasticated waist, taken down to the smallest setting and they were still bloody huge. Am I really going to get that big?
Today I was supposed to go to a friend’s birthday party, but I managed to do the farmers’ market without fainting and that was it. I feel utterly terrible and I can barely keep my eyes open. So, Mr P has gone alone.
Even so, I managed to watch South Africa’s glorious Test victory over the English. Typically England didn’t start playing properly until after tea, when they’d lost already. Why did Flintoff wait until Sunday afternoon to start hitting the ball around the field like Botham? Tsk!