I've been up for the past two hours with the acute inability to sleep. It's not mini-hd squirming, or being uncomfortable - it's just the fact that I couldn't quite settle down again after being violently prodded in the bladder by the mini one and then blinded by the light shining through from next door when I then had to pop to the little ladies.

Not that I have long to go and admittedly, maybe this is training for me. The joys! But there isn't all that long to go. And whilst occassionally I do get fed up with being large and rather rotund, I realise that whilst it would be nice to get my body back, this would in effect mean that I would get less sleep and be shackled down more to a routine which will take time and space to build. A complete change of lifestyle.

And lets not forget poor grumpy Girlpants. That man can not survive on lack of either food nor sleep, so I might have to even resort to some of above the baby sleep techniques on him. Right after stocking up on frozen portions of home made leftovers so that he can survive the early weeks. I'm sure that he managed to cook and look after himself before we met, but apparently now the pixies do alot of the jobs around the house, which must make me Dobby. Oh to be appreciated.

Parenthood. It's a big unknown, and to be honest, I also worry how how mini-me may affect our relationship. Before, we had the choice to go out and about, do as we please, spend money where we wanted and quoff gin until the junipers were in bloom. And whilst we never actually did any of these things, it's the fact that the choice has been taken away from us that makes us wonder. Like marriage, it's a big adventure which we want to face on together in our own way. And whilst this is what we want, we are however painfully aware that as much as we want to try and do as much as we can on our own, that there are some people who appear more excited over the new addition than even us. And just because we didn't jump up and down for the last several months.

I sense the setting of boundaries ahead...

I did vow to myself earlier this year never to accept another meme, however before I could update my about me, Mister Bart’s dart hit the mark. So here I go.... Once more, the rules are as follows:

1. Link to the person who tagged you.
2. Mention 'Da Rules'.
3. Tell six unspectacular quirks of yours.
4. Tag six bloggers by linking.
5. Leave a comment for each blogger.

Regale the readers with six things all about little old moi – however apparently I shouldn’t make them too interesting... But as this will be my last meme, I won't tag other bloggers as I've been burnt by that action before. So if you fancy, please join in.

As for me...

1. I ate so much tomato soup as a child that my natural tan developed a slight orange tinge to it. Given my mini-me stature, I was in effect an oompa lumpa.
2. I hate getting water on my face to the point that I will scrub, cleanse and dry it before getting into the shower.
3. I don’t like baths. After all – who wants to bathe in soup de la Sim?
4. I am effectively a crap liar. You can spot any of my ltiny little white lies or especially any of my huge snorkers from 50 paces.
5. I once served a triple expresso to Daniel Day Lewis, clad all in biker leathers en route to Spain, still with his Last of the Mohicans’s long hair. He gave me a £2 tip which I squirreled away only to find that my mother had raided my piggy bank whilst in Japan.
6. I didn’t own a pair of jeans until well into my teens as my father said they were un-ladylike. I finally got my first pair for my 16th birthday after my friends clubbed together in teen solidarity. 

Voilà. And that folks was my last meme.

And not just any classic. Jimmy Page was fabulous as the Led Zep riffs echoed around the birds nest stadium of a Whole Lottsa Love. But then Missy Lewis opened her mouth. And warbled.
Was I the only one cringing? Don’t get me wrong – Leona Lewis has been a top class winner of X Factor and has a great voice. But rock she is not. She’s ballard-y. Now IMHO if one is in a birds nest, you could be forgiven to believe that either you’ve been shrunk, are about to eat a tasty meal or presume that you are in effect a bird and therefore trill like one for your supper. But Leona Lewis was just wrong here. She essentially has the wrong voice for LZ.

What was wrong with a bit of Shirley Bassey? Arctic Monkeys? Muse? Or even actually getting Led Zep back together once more to blast one out from the past? Or could they not persuade the hipper stars to get onto a horticultural bus whose top was made out of privet hedges that looked nothing like the vintage London buses to perform? It can’t be that all the peeps on the bus had to come from London as Beckham was there with the second biggest cheer (the biggest going to the Korean team member who dive bombed through the crowds to get Beckham’s football).

Whilst wincing in pain at the final 8 minutes for British handover, Girlpants and I threw ideas out over what the opening ceremony for 2012 may be like, given the fact that we opened with people queuing at a bus stop, cyclists and bowler hats.  Mary Poppins was fully expected to float down and shake up some of the slovenly dress and jumping of the aforementioned queue. We even expected a pre-empt of the London marathon, with added incentive to go faster as participants were chased by gangs of knife welding youngsters after the athletes top of the range new trainers.

I’m quite taken with the idea that we should go the whole hog and go back to our historical roots. Let Her Majesty come out and sit in the Royal Box whilst looking on at a Royal Jousting Ceremony where handpicked athletes ride in the arena encased in full armour, throwing her garter at her preferred champion. Meanwhile, HRH Duke of Edinburgh bounds to the rescue of the British public as he hurtles over the Royal Box and rugby tackles the Earl of Wessex who has suddenly appeared in the arena in full cringeworthy It’s A Knockout regalia that he's dusted out of storage. High up, Harry Potter lookalikeys whizz out on broomsticks to play fictional Quiddich above our heads as the torch is lit and they desperately try to not set their robes on fire, whilst Dizzee Rascal raps out his own version of Bowie’s classic “Heroes”.

The 2012 Olympics is our oyster is it not...?

Annual leave.

Unless you have anything specific to do, you end up just doing a few jobs around the house and the weekly shop. Or in my case, just the weekly shop as I'm not allowed to help out around the house due to my pregnancy induced disability that renders me incapable.

But my goodness.

I. Am. Bored.

Ideally, we could have flown away somewhere or visited a far off European land by eurostar. But from 1st September, my money goes down to zilch and maternity kicks in so we're watching the pennies, so I may just do my Christmas shop in the next couple of weeks online. And when you think about how close it is now to crimbo, it makes you stop and think that this year has really flown by.

It seems only a couple of weeks ago that we took the parenthood test and the words "bollocks" echoed around the home, mainly as quite a bit of alcohol had been imbibed in the weeks before. And I'm quite sure if I tried, I could still squeeze into my jeans around the baby bump whilst my now even more so impressive cleavage could be rammed into some of my rather low cut tops for the full ability to take someone's eye out as I walk on by.

However we're now nearing the home stretch. Baby bump will be arriving soon and if we're really lucky, we may get to see if it's a boy, girl or merely confused sometime later today as I am once again scanned due to muggin's being in breach. Not that I mind the scan but I do have an overt fear of hospitals, hence the screaming big letters on the birth plan tells them to get me out of there asap. Which may not happen if baby still refused to turn. Weebles wobble but they don't fall down, and they have done everything shy of using a cattle prod to try and turn the bump to no avail, hence today and meeting with the consultant to chat about being too posh to push and tummy tucks as baby may be taken out of the sun roof. I do hope the consultant is hunky. Fear of all things surgical is always appeased by a little eye candy which is how I bi-annually justify my drool to Girlpants at the young trainee dentists.

Now that the wall of Alcratraz has been errected, the house has fallen quiet once more. No more anti-social brats popping over, maybe because we've stuffed every nook and cravice under our neighbours fences with dry holly an then back it up with a wall of breezeblocks. Or maybe because we've had more rainfall in the past 5 days than the past three months, but I would prefer to think the former...

As I'm currently suffering with cankles, as mini-hd grows and manages to lodge limbs behind hip bones and ribs at in opportune moments, the rain has come as some sort of solace, although the heat build up makes it worse. And me tetchy. Maybe it's the heat or the fact that my body has finally given into withdrawal symptons at the lack of my favourite tipples, or worse even the realisation that we're shortly going to be parents and that I have the almightly feeling that we're not at all prepared for it.

That and I have no job to go back to.

The lack of job worries me somewhat in so much money, but the fact that possibly for the next year or so, I may be out of work which just leaves me mini-hd and facing the dire possibility that I could very readily turn into mumsy Sim. This probably in some aspect, is re-inforced by the lack of choice in maternity wear you can buy in the Mouth of Ply and how those sack cothes make me look, as someone in work has commented for the last 7 weeks how utterly huge I look. Cue Sim, stage left, running out of the room, faking a crying fit whilst sobbing that I was no longer attractive. Cue colleague extracting size 12's from mouth under the glare of the ladies that share their office, never daring to mention a women's weight again.

So whilst I am admittedly getting technically bigger and I only have 8 working days left, I can at least say that my evil sense of humour is still at the forefront. Adding to this, Girlpants has tried to solace me with the fact that we can teach the child lies.

I suppose there is some hope after all

Brats.
Bloody anti-social sodding brats.

I've been absent for over the last month as Girlpants and I have been teased, plagued and intimidated by a pack of bratlings who have found it funny to not only use our home as a thoroughfare to the back of the flats which back onto our garden but have also found it amusing to climb up a tree on the council land at the back to access our garden so that they can run havoc in the gardens and throw various missiles at our set of homes. At first, both we and our our neighbours have ignored them all but it's all taken a rather serious note, which for me, kicked in when Girlpants had to go away for work and I was alone in the house.

I'm not much of a wuss - I tend to call a spade a spade and usually would have no problem going up to people if I have a problem. But the things with baby bumps is that they tend to make mammas-to-be feel a bit more vulnerable. Mainly because it's not just me but now mini-hd, and to be home alone with unknown people banging on the windows at dusk was a little worrying. And because it would appear that I'm disabled, now I’m pregnant, which in turns means that all and sundry have been fretting... Apparently I'm quite delicate despite the fact that I can swear like the best of them when I occasionally stub my toe.

So when the 8 or 9 year olds came this weekend, Girlpants was not amused. He chased them out of the garden, and they came back, yelling that the fat lady should run.

At this point, I would like to point out that I am pregnant. Not fat. And previous to this, I was considered voluptuous...

The second time, he went to the back of the flats and I stupidly went into the garden to basically yell. But then I fell, catching myself on knees in a very undignified manner. Cue everyone - family, friends and neighbours worrying. So Girlpants remained in the garden as he heard them yell they were coming back. Which they did. Armed.

I make myself feel awfully old when I think to myself that I would never have acted this way in my day. Family was everything and my parents always knew where I was. But somehow I doubt the same could be said for this 10+ strong group of children, who came along with thick branches, bricks and in one case, a 3ft long metal bar, as they attempted to climb back into the garden. At which point, Girlpants took the bar off them and called the police. The boys in blue turned up promptly and rounded the toerags up, taking them home to their parents for a sound talking to...

But now Girlpants is fretting. He's worried about me and mini-hd, and as he's worried, I'm worried about him. He's also worried about the house and damage that could be done to it, but as we've reasoned, that's why we have insurance and as long as our little family is fine, then that's all that's important. But now he's come up with his own version modern of a moat for his castle. I have found from experience that when men get and idea in their head, they tend to exaggerate to make it the best it can be. And Girlpants has a whammy. We're going to build up the wall at the back in order as a deterrence. Not just any wall. A 6ft wall. However, to do so, we have to cut down some quite old trees at the back which I have become very fond of so I will be posting up some pictures shortly to see if anyone can help me identify some of the trees we have to cut down to replace them.

Bloody anti-social sodding brats. Not only costing us for a wall but now I lose some beloved adopted garden friends as a consequence. and I can't even have a stiff drink for dutch courage before the felling commences. Bother!

As Girlpants is still away, I thought that I would help him out with his chores. In our house, I clean the house, I cook a variety of home cooked from scratch, shop within the budget and look after the little living things when they're ill in the night, malting tumbleweed like no-ones business or need feeding early in the morning - the only line I draw is cleaning the fish which as far as I'm concerned is man's domain. Girlpants chores are basically all the DIY's and the laundry. But as I'm actually missing the man as this is the longest he's been away for the longest time, I thought that I would help out with some of his chores. Not the DIY as apparenty I'm too disabled to hold a screwdriver due the half labotomy that I've automatically got with pregnancy on the NHS. o - I decided to help out with the other.

Gentlemen - I read the manual on how to use the darned washing machine.
Ladies - I sorted out colours and managed to complete two washes.
All - I forgot to both throughly lint the cat blanket plus put in aside for it's own wash and presumed that it could all be put in together.

And now Girlpants has some very furry chinos and shirts. And I have less than 24 hours to sort it out.

I won't mention the state of the underwear....