Gladioli at the ready! What a year to be pregnant.

This, two-part article is an example of the type of thing the Other Half tells me NOT to read, listen to or watch. So I do. I am woman!

You know how, normally, when your in a pub and someone comes out with a line that you think is the funniest thing since the ping pong scene in “Priscilla, Queen of the Desert”, by the next morning, your hangover has kicked in and you have no memory of what was so funny that you snorted vodka out of your left nostril? Well, one of the few advantages of pregnancy is sobriety - and a much longer term memory (24 hours, instead of 6).

So, I was in the pub yesterday and a local Gene Puddle barman came in on his evening off. Now, this gentleman is a great teddy-bear of a more mature man, and camper than, well, camp. He wandered over to say “hello” and the following conversation followed;

Him: Well, I haven’t seen you for so long I thought one of us was dead. Of course, I wasn’t sure if that was you or me!

Me: No, I’m not dead, just pregnant.

Him: Oh no! Don’t tell me how it got in there, I’m far to delicate for all that. And, purlease, don’t even think about mentioning how it’s coming out. I went there 56 years ago on my way out and thought at the time, “well, that’s the last time I’m going near one of those”.

With that, he turned tail, blew me a kiss over his shoulder and went back to his place at the bar. By this time, I, of course, had started to snort Diet Coke down my left nostril, which, let me tell you, isn’t as much fun as vodka.

It doesn’t seem so funny in the telling. Perhaps you just had to be there.

Now then, where did I leave those nuclear missiles??

Here in the Gene Puddle, the local swimming club - attached to the leisure centre - is called The Beavers. I know this because I go to an Aqua Natal class that follows on from one of their team teaching very small children to swim. Anyway, I digress (”Never”, I hear you cry!).

Knowing that The Beavers have children in their ranks - and not really being aware whether there is an adult version of the group - I was therefore somewhat perplexed to follow a bumper sticker with “Happiness is a wet Beaver” to work.

Is it just me - or is this probably inappropriate??

Name her!!

Somebody I know out there isn’t telling me everything. I can’t decide whether I’m pissed off or slightly amused by this.

They should probably be aware that, just because we say we are never going to do something when we are young, it doesn’t mean that we can’t change our minds. Example being me and pregnancy. They should also probably be aware that it really doesn’t matter that when a discussion is held as little as six months ago when the position is re-inforced, it still doesn’t mean a change of heart isn’t totally OK.

Hope that clears things up.

I think I might have bloggers block - a nasty little disorder which ranges from mild apathy to complete paranoia about the number of days that have passed since you have shared your wisdom with your eager public. I think mine is quite a mild case. I’ve got a couple of ideas, but they all seem to start off well in my head and then fizzle into nothing.

I did think about writing about all the men I wished I’d slept with when I was younger (I’ve just seen the Other Half’s ears prick up from 10 miles away). You know, real people, not film stars and the like. The people who you hoped you’d bump into down the local (park or public house depending on age). The ones you always had a mild flirtation or friendship with and never did anything about. I still see a few of them from time to time. Sometimes we chat, sometimes we engage in the mild jousting that flirting turns into once you know that you are hugely unlikely to ever do anything about it. Risqué suggestions become more vivid, because you know that at the end of your conversation he’ll introduce you to his wife (usually sat chatting to some bloke that she’d wanted to sleep with when she was 16) and you’ll introduce your Other Half (who, in my case, has usually been discussing nuclear fusion with some of his mates). You then try to do the polite, inclusive, conversation, but quickly realise that flirting is all you now have in common. Ah well.

That’s the good reunion. Of course the bad one is when someone you worshipped from afar returns to your world. However, instead of the witty, charming young man you once knew, he’s now a lecherous gimp, heading towards middle age, still using the same chat up lines. These are the men, and believe me in the Gene Puddle there are a few, who you avoid as you get older. If you don’t manage to escape before they catch your eye, you know that you’ll have a long conversation, with a man whose oral hygiene regime consists of swilling mouthwash, without ever brushing or flossing his teeth. He’ll also try, repeatedly to put an arm around your shoulder or across your lower back, in the primeval “this woman with me” manoeuvere. At the same time, your Other Half, or group of friends, mysteriously disappear, leaving you with no escape route, other than to pass the leech onto another unsuspecting woman, whose life blood he can then begin to drain.

Then, of course, there are the men who have been friends for years. Mild flirtation passed when you were in your teens, as friendship grew, but you occasionally wonder “what if..”. Whilst there is nothing unhealthy, per se, in this, you naturally have to keep it in check. There is no point, and little wisdom, in having a crush on a mate, especially a mate you get drunk with. Alcohol and a crush are a combination more explosive than anything Willie Coyote ever managed to get his hands (paws?) on and will inevitably always lead to disaster. I once knew a thirty-something who indulged in a crush with someone she’d known since teenage years. They jousted and parried for an evening, before ending up in bed. She’s barely seen him since - I’m not sure she actually wants to, either. It was the crossing of a line.

Anyway, that was the start of what I wasn’t going to talk about because of my bloggers block. Naturally, being the gossipy old mare that I am, I was going to advance into ever greater detail. But, hey, there are people from the Gene Puddle (including my Other Half) who read this. Perhaps, I might indulge, instead, in a tale of all the people I’ve ever slept with. Mmm, now that’s something to ponder…

I’m off to buy some bleach - eugh!

A little something on being paranoid from my neighbourhood fireman (or rather friend who works in IT for the Fire Service, but fireman somehow sounds more cool - or hot…).