Next week it'll be 30.
When I was young, I looked upon the age of 30 with awe and trepidation, as if I couldn't *possibly* get to that age. Since it was also the year 2000 these two auspicious events colliding surely meant that I was made for great and wonderful things.
Now I measure my life, not in Starbucks wooden coffee stirrers but in monthly travel cards. Each one peels away another month of work purgatory, and pulls me closer to the next change in my life. I now have 2 months of work to go before I leave, to lie, sea-cow like on the sofa, wading my way through Matt's "Buffy" collection (much to Mackay's disgruntlement I have no doubt, and fair play, I mean it's hardly good use of my time but under the circumstances will I really want to do anythign other than lie down barking orders, trying not to grimace too hard when I sit up to have my herbal tea?).
She's now widening my bump so instead of it merely pushing forward, if you were to run your hands over my rib cage you would find an enormous, tumour like growth ballooning from the front and moving inexorably outward.
Sprog, my love (whose name will not be mentioned here until after the birth, well, that's my excuse anyway): You may blanche at me calling your current abode a tumour. However, please bear in mind that the chief definition of tomour is "a swollen or distended part". Which, my lovely wee girly, you are at present indelibly associated with.
Anyway, the point is she's got *so long to go*. Christ. I mean - where is the growth going to come from? there's only so much of me available to stretch! I now very much understand where Quinn's extraordinary stretch marks came from, given that Ada seemed to desire an internal residence about as spacious as mine appears to be. My mother, helpfully says "Oh well, pregnancies are all different you know". Oh, handy. Thanks! If you stuck a pin in my side right now, the amiotic fluid would shoot out like a fountain!
That, plus an awful increase in humidity meant no sleep again last night, after a long, looooong journey all the way across town on the very hot tube. At the lovely Mr Phil Gyford's flat for a belated housewarming I made the mistake of looking at my puce, sweating face in his very tasteful bathroom mirror. I won't do that again in a hurry.