It’s not that nothing’s going on, but I’m so tired these days, that I don’t have much …what’s the word…desire to update the world on what’s going on in my life.

I have officially entered my eighth month of pregnancy. I’m tired, bored with being tired, and fucking huge. Huger than the preggy books say I should be, and I don’t know why.

We spent an absolute fortune on nursery equipment last week. It’s all got to last for two years at least, and I didn’t want to entrust my daughter to a second-hand pram (they’re called “travel systems” these days): ditto – on reflection – the cot. So we bought everything new, including an extremely expensive baby gym that will probably break in five minutes, but it plays Mozart, Beethoven and Bach. Couldn’t find one that played Ellington, Basie and Davis; and the lady gave me a funny look when I asked. Jazz is the perfect thing to play children – even trad. They love the syncopation and the rhythmn, and it’s great for dancing. You can’t dance to Eine Kleine or the Moonlight Sonata.

I now have four weeks left to go at work, and I’m finding it increasingly difficult to survive more than a few hours in the office. I start having nightmares about the commute – one crowded, smelly, rickety bus, or two crowded, rickety trains…you choose…I usually get a seat on the bus – at around lunchtime, and by 3pm I’m usually asleep at my desk.

Riverbend is posting recipes online. I might try this kebab recipe of hers.

Easties blog is gaining in popularity. Today I got an email from a complete stranger, asking if we could link to the web site, which we did. It’s odd, letting people read this stuff that spews out of my keyboard after watching a soap opera.

Even odder is that most of my friendsandrelations don’t find it in the least bit funny, but total strangers do. My colleague asked to read it one day. I watched him as he read it: he didn’t crack a smile once.


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