I am really getting tired of Noah. He is 3, and very naughty. It is 8:13 pm and he is awake, after a long day at the beach. And he is banging his legs against the radiator in his room which causes the whole flat to reverberate. It is very irritating.
Other things that suck:
The broken washing machine. Yeah, cos a family of five can totally do without a washing machine for 6 DAYS (thanks, speedy and vigilant landlords to which we pay a fortune). The laundry pile is snaking around the hallway and seems to be growing fur. There is the faint smell of wet dog, but that could be the festering pushchair. Or the children.
The antenatal clinic. Three hours it took to have blood taken, two scans, one 10 minute consultation with the midwife and a urine sample squeezed out and presented in hastily-wrapped tissue because apparently that is urine sample etiquette. Oh, and the best bit was having to have an internal scan because the pesky little egg-sized baby refused to show his/her neck, despite my frantic stomach-wobbling. “Shake like a belly dancer” commanded the scan lady. I really tried, but the Probe had to be resorted to. All while Barnaby watched, wide-eyed and fascinated.
The midwife. She was nice, and jolly, but she did weigh me. Which is enough to put her into this category. Because she exposed The Truth. Which was, I am waaaaay fatter than I used to be. She said that it wasn’t enough to refer me to anyone, ha ha ha. Just stop eating cake. Ha ha ha. Sigh. And then she did a BMI calculation and I swear there was some kind of sharp intake of breath.
Stupid laundromat. They close at 8pm! What kind of laundromat closes before you have the time to put your overdue manky washing into the dryer? They are going to tut at me tomorrow when I arrive at 8am, children all whiny and breakfast still stuck to their faces, and my Washing Shame will be there for all to see. Taking up TWO machines, and probably stinky. And then I won’t have the correct change, and will have to ask the lady for some, and all eyes will be on me and everyone will know that I do not belong in the laundromat. That I am not of their kind.
Pasta. With cream. Why did I put the cream in? I know now that I am heading towards obesity. I really should have been like The Harridan of Old, who would have avoided such gluttony. I am weak, Dear Reader, WEAK. There was a time, before children, that I was disciplined. Then it all became about cake and breastfeeding and mid afternoon treats. And incidental exercise. And now THIS. Fatty Boom Ba-itis.
Luckily I have the Woody Allen movie to cheer me up – they are filming in our street and so I can sort of be an extra, just an inside/down in the basement/not actually appearing but kind of present type of extra. And seeing Woody in a towelling hat is quite cool. And if Freida Pinto makes an appearance alongside Anthony Hopkins and Antonio Banderas, I shall totally give up my cool exterior and will take many snaps for YOU GUYS.
What is more, I do have a cheering picture of that naughty Noah on a pony. That goes someway to melting the bitterness and anger in my heart.