It would come as no surprise that I've decided to postpone my Masters in Forensics until entry September 2009. Not because of mini-hd, but more due to the sheer fear of the world economy.

It's all doom and gloom on the news at the moment. There doesn't seem to be much joy in the world, as mortgages and homes are under threat, banks are folding and the gamblers that work in the City and Stock Exchange, despite their big payouts each year are now scrabbling to save whats left of their jobs and finances. And it's not just on the news any more - the pinch is being felt at home as well.

A year ago, I could shop for the household very well on less than £50 a week. That was a deluxe budget and we did very well out of it, with oodles of wine, gin and copious amounts of meat. This week, despite the vouchers for discounted nappies and without the luxuries above, it sky rocketed over £75.

What with banks failing, Governments propping institutions up, the University having it's own cull from the ranks and file, paranoid andriod has kicked in - after all, why spend the money you've saved on your education which you can postpone for a year to allow for a provisional nestegg just in case of that rainy day. Plus that way, I can concentrate on mini-hd and know that I'm giving her my full attention as opposed to having my mind elsewhere. And vice-versa on the masters.

I'll just have to keep up my research by yelling out mistakes on the new episodes of CSI...

My god. I'm sore. That was one long cookie receipe that took 9 months to ferment. And after everything kicking in on the Wednesday afternoon, mini-hd was finally born on Saturday morning after many drugs, much pain and almost ripping the head of the last consultant who suggested that I give another four hours a try on top of 50+ odd hours I had already partook in. In fact, had it not been for the fact that I was immobolised and had an epidural in my back, I would have found the nearest hard sharp object and heaved it at his head. Thank god the senior midwife recignised me from her shift two days previous and called in the boss...

I suppose that I should now refer to mini-hd by her real name, Erika. It seems bizarre referring to baby bump as a real person with name as for a long time, she was in effect a mass of wriggles in the belly that generally kicked off around 10 at night.

A habit she has continued...

Erika finally made an appearance out of the sun roof, however without the tummy tuck or the zip that had been requested. And despite the worries and trepdiation of surgery, it has to be said that should you ever be worried about something monumental that you just can't get out of, it surely helps to have Dr McKnockOut as your anthesistist.

Believe me ladies, the eye candy helps.

Having drooled through of the surgery whilst attempting to hide it from Girlpants, it all just seems all unreal, especially as I was discharged after two days with my world hospital goods in sainsburys carrier bags at the effects of the the Christmas parties 2007 was felt in the September baby rush and clamour for beds.

The difference is the sleep or lack of. The smells. The baby vom. But my goodness, she is cute. And despite bits of me still aching and not managing to catch up on the lack of sleep from labour, how can you begrudge it all when you see my little monkey child...?

Butter wouldn't melt...

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.

A week! A whole sodding week since I last blogged. And I made a promise to try harder...

But then again, I do have a defence. It's not a good thing when you're up the duff and the man get's ill. In all fairness and in Girlpants defence, he's been trying to get the house ready whilst also trying to work on his real job full time and it's all been too much. And as such with life, somethhing had to give and he fell ill. Man Flu. Again.

Whilst usually I can deal with this, my rather protruding belly means that baby bump takes all the goodness whilst I have to suffer any consequences. So after tending to Girlpants for the last week, I fell ill to the dreaded man flu, which automatically developed into something far far worse.

Girl flu.

Gents - this is when illness really kicks in. Usually your mum used to help you with the sniffles, served up soup and placed a cool flannel over your forehead, all the while she would be fighting off the germs herself. But then when you have something taking the vitamins and all things nice from your body, there's no chance of that. It's not just a sniffle that you can ham up, but a full blown, weak as a two day old pup virus that overwhelms your entire being. And then all of a sudden, Girlpants realised that whilst I had been sympathetic, on Thursday afternoon it became all too clear that it was now his turn and he now had to look after me.

Right after I made supper.

I sense that some understandings need to be fleshed out...

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