There is nothing more wonderful about being a female human being than the joyous occasion of the smear test.
Yes. I’m being sarcastic.
A smear test: when your vagina is winched open and your cervix is swabbed. YAY! Fun for all.
GUILTY FACE. I was long overdue a smear. Hadn’t had one in AAAAAAGES. Thought I should probably have one done. They’re important. THEY MAKE YOU FEEL LIKE YOU’VE BEEN PUNCHED IN THE VULVA, but they’re important.
This is what I worried about prior to the actual smear test:
- what if my undercarriage smells?
- what if I guff in the doctor’s face by accident?
- what if the doctor loses a speculum up there?
- what if the doctor finds a colony of womb spiders?
- what if the doctor recoils in horror at the sight of my untamed muff?
- what if the doctor refuses to administer the smear test on the grounds of a cruel and unusual vaginal display?
- my vagina’s OK, right?
- I mean, it FEELS OK. I haven’t actually looked properly in a while. I’m assuming it’s OK. DOES MY VAGINA LOOK OK?
- oh my GOD what if my vagina doesn’t look like a vagina any more?
- would the doctor even say if my vagina didn’t look OK?
- or would they just secretly add it to a list of Odd Vaginas and post it on the internet?
- should I google Odd Vaginas, just in case?
I’m pretty sure the doctor has seen A LOT of vaginas in her line of work. She kind of had the face of someone who’d seen A HECK OF A LOT of vaginas. And not in a good way.
She was quite curmudgeonly. I felt sorry for her, but then felt annoyed, because I wanted someone chirpy and bright and POSITIVE to bring me out of my worried funk. Someone to put me at ease. Not a ‘oh fuck, here’s another vagina’-faced doctor. I should have had a ‘YAY VAGINA!’ doctor. All gynaecological doctors should come with a YAY VAGINA! qualification.
But I’m being unfair. She was good at the smeary stuff. If ‘good’ means ‘shove a speculum in this front bottom and wrench those walls wide so’s I can shine a light on your secret juicy parts and poke around a bit’. Which is essentially what a smear test entails.
It’s UNCOMFORTABLE. It’s not unbearable, though. Just when you think you REALLY REALLY DON’T WANT TO DO THIS any more, she whips the speculum out and it’s over. I found out I have something HORRENDOUS sounding called CERVICAL EROSION (or ectropion) which made me want to go ‘AAAAAAAAAARRGHHHHHH WHAT WHAAAAAT OMFG MY CERVIX IS ERODING WHAAAAAAAT?’ for a minute until she explained it was quite common and not weird or dangerous or anything. Phew.
Anyway, obvs I have to wait for the results to see if I do have anything weird or dangerous, which is a whole different kind of worried funk now. But at least I’d KNOW, and can then do something about it, if needs be.
SMEAR TESTS ARE SO FUCKING IMPORTANT. Just DO ONE. Sure, they’re disagreeable and faintly embarrassing but how else are you going to know whether your cervix is peachy or not?
And if you’re lucky, you’ll get a YAY VAGINA! doctor.
I’ll say it one more time: YAY VAGINA!
And: get a fucking smear test done.
This has been a public service blog post, sponsored by my eroded cervix. You’re welcome.
Should I google Odd Vaginas?
Fucking hot weather, innit. I’m sitting in my pants writing this. JUST MY PANTS. Sweaty, sticky pants. Laptop burning through the cushion balanced on my lap. Growing colonies of bacteria in my swampy under-boobs. Pretty sure there’s also some jungle vines amassing in my foetid arse crack. Fat flies buzzing in lazy swirls around the stagnant shallows of my armpits. I’m so HOT. And not in a good way.
Just wanted to give y’all a mental image of my beauteous form, there. YOU’RE WELCOME. Any time.
There are ways of coping. ONE: don’t live in a country where this bastard-sunshine thing can happen. Go NORTH. In the epic wastelands of the north, it’s cooler, and not so damn bright, and they have clouds and rain and stuff. Unfortunately, I feel dizzy and get nosebleeds if I go past Gloucester so I have to stay south and west as much as possible. For the sake of my HEALTH, obvs.
TWO: live in a cave. This is feasible. There are many caves in the ground. Some are habitable. As long as you like living in caves. Dark, chill, festooned with bats and stalagmites: what’s not to enjoy? Wait, it’s almost as if we’re talking about my arse crack again. ANYWAY. I can’t live in a cave, I get flashbacks to that time I was buried alive and had to punch my way out of a coffin* so dwelling underground is just not my thing. Shame.
THREE: become one of those people for whom hot weather is merely an inconvenience, or a slight discomfort. Y’know. They don’t perspire. They barely have a sheen to their dry, scaly skin. They skip across hot pavements, from shadow to precious shadow, with graceful, skittish ease. They gaze upon you with the slow, moist blink of the eternally cool. I envy these people. Oh no, wait, I mean LIZARDS. I envy lizards. And lizard-people.
Those are only a few of the more sensible solutions I have for managing to stay comfortable in this stupid weather. Moo is perfectly content to splash about in a washing-up bowl full of water outside in the shade, while I melt into a fleshy puddle nearby. I think my internal thermostat is broken, cos I never used to be this pathetic. I should be romping in the park in a bikini top and denim hotpants, yeah? I shouldn’t be yearning the fabric clasp of a damn good cardigan, right? WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?
How the fucking fuck are you supposed to deal with July? Like, an actual July with actual sweltering bloody heatwave stuff? I DON’T LIKE IT.
Bastard weather. Do one.
PS I’m allowed to moan about the weather. So there.
*may have been Uma Thurman in Kill Bill, I’m always getting mixed up with her
My brain is full of stuff that generally could be perceived as useless. ENTIRELY USELESS. Obvs there’s some good stuff – like how to make a cup of tea, remembering where my bed is, and how to rewire giant lasers to go from stun to kill – but in the grand scheme of things, my brain is a repository for crap. Actual, real crap.
This is what my brain is up to right now:
AKKA AKKA FUH-tong FUH-tong ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ pop WOOOOOOOOAAAAHHHHHH
See? What a load of shit. That is a DAILY OCCURANCE. Man alive. I can’t even spell occurrence. My brain got it wrong first time. Like it needs a run up. Damn brain.
BUT ANYWAY. What am I getting at? Oh yeah. My brain has recently acquired some new information, however, which means that it is FINALLY using its powers for something positive and useful and potentially awesomesauce.
I went on a First Aid course.
Woo! That’s right. I am now a First Aider. I was a bit disappointed that we don’t get costumes to wear in our new roles but I might fashion my own. I’m thinking spandex onesie with F A emblazoned across my chest. And a cape. And a mask. And a tutu. Maybe.
This course was great. Absolutely great. It felt good to be learning something new and relevant and ultimately life-changing. It was also astonishing and frightening and kind of humbling. The other people on the course shared their stories of real-life emergencies. We watched a video of some lifeguards on Bondi Beach doing CPR on someone dragged unconscious from the waves. We practised tying bandages on each other. We learned all sorts of terrifying statistics about survival rates and deaths, and how you really don’t want to have to perform a Heimlich manoeuvre on yourself – with a spindle-backed chair* – if you can possibly help it. We learned about choking, and burns, and bleeding, and shock. I now know CPR, and how hard and fast I have to do it if I want to make a difference between someone living and dying. I know how to put someone in the recovery position, even if they’re seated in a chair or slumped against a wall. I know how to treat a burn or a scald. I know what to do if someone has a seizure. I know that in an emergency, I can be of use until someone more qualified than me turns up with the defibrillator and the drugs and the superior knowledge.
It’s all good stuff. In a way, I hope I never have to use it. When my ex and I had to call an ambulance for Moo about eighteen months ago I vowed to myself that I would never want to have to do that ever again, ever ever. Of course, accidents happen and those wonderful paramedics are there for a reason. But during the First Aid course, I finally came to terms with what Moo went through that awful evening. I thought I was over it, yet when I was explaining to the course teacher what had happened, I started crying and wobbling a bit and that’s when it struck me that the absolute worst thing about it all was feeling so damn useless. My infant daughter had been unconscious on the rug and I didn’t have a clue what to do. Thankfully, it turned out just fine. I now understand that after vomiting a few times Moo went into shock and her body shut down to protect her vital organs. She was still breathing, her heart was still beating. But it was like a reboot. Turned off then on again. Fucking terrifying for me and her daddy. I hope she never does it again. At least I’d know what to do. If it happened to ANYONE.
This stuff should be taught in schools. Currently, it’s not. Seriously. EVERYONE should know some basic first aid. Shouldn’t they? Am I right in thinking that? We should be confident enough to know what to do if we see someone collapsed in the street, right? Even if it’s put them into the recovery position and call an ambulance, that’s something.
I feel like I want to do more.
Are you a First Aider? Or have you ever been in an emergency and instinctively known what to do?
*dude tried it, impaled himself on spindle, and died. True story. Aargh.
OK OK don’t think too hard about this, just read the question, then answer – HONESTLY, mind – you’re fooling no one – we can all read your mind – or maybe only I can – I dunno – are you thinking about ham sandwiches? – with mustard? – no? – then who the fuck? – dammit, hungry now – OK ANYWAY – here’s the question, ready, set, here we go:
Books or sex?
Ooh, INTERESTING. Yeah, it’s books, innit. No one’s ACTUALLY picked sex. You’ve all picked books. Cos books are GREAT. Some of you have been sneaky – yes, you, you minx – and picked both. OK fair enough. To be fair, sex is pretty awesome too. But BOOKS. Love books. Love reading. Love reading books. I also love sex. Sex on books? OH HELLO.
Sorry, sidetracked. Yeah, so books. I am reading an epic piece atm. And last night, this book I’m reading basically ripped open my chest, chewed up my heart, and spat it out onto my duvet, and then just blithely carried on with the next chapter, chortling quietly to itself. Bastard. I am, of course, talking about Game of Thrones, the tits and sword fighting and blood and emotional warfare fantasy series by George R R Martin, or as I now call him, The Bastard Author Bastard Heart-breaking Bastard Writer Person. Also, he’s a genius, and I adore him.
Game of Thrones is huge. There are pages and pages of the stuff. And he still hasn’t finished writing it – I gather from a reliable source (ie someone on Twitter) that it’s been SIX LONG YEARS since the last book and he has legions of fans waiting for the next – and final – instalment. Of course, there is also the TV series, which has just started the third season on Sky. Watch it, it’s great, my next husband is in it, no he’s not too young for me, shut your face, he’s mine he’s mine. So, legions and echelons of fans. And now I’m one of them.
I love a book you can immerse yourself in, and I love an author that takes risks. Only last night, as I’ve mentioned, GRRM messed with my brain. I can’t do any spoilers - I’d be hunted down and maimed – but what I can reveal is that SOME OF MY FAVOURITE CHARACTERS WERE JUST KILLED TO DEATH, JUST LIKE THAT, JUST DEADED COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY AND NOW I’M SAD.
I am such a loser. I know it’s fiction. But I was genuinely upset. I had to stop reading, and place my Kindle very carefully out of reach (or I might have thrown it at the wall in grief) while I took a moment to process what I’d just read.
(I was, not the characters, although… no, no spoilers, dammit)
It’s devastating. I knew the books were the kind of books where no one’s safe, not the good guys, the bad guys, the good/bad/good guys, the mediocre guys, or anyone, really. I knew this, already. And I ALLOWED myself to become attached to them. Like a silly romantic fool. I rooted for the them. I empathised. I – yeah, I’ll say it – I loved them. And now they’re dead. AAARGH. I am literally too sad to continue reading right now. Mostly cos someone else on Twitter said it gets worse. For EVERYONE. Like, my other favourite characters. SOB.
Sometimes, I wish I was made of stone. I wish I didn’t feel so much. It can be a weighty burden. All day, I’ve been happily doing Normal Stuff, when I’d remember, and my smile would slip, and it’d all wash over me again, like a veil of tears.
Jeez, I need to get a life.
Anyway, I had to blog about it. I need to know I’m not the only complete sap. What was the last book you read that totally broke your soul?
And actually, thinking about sex on books – it’s just, paper cuts – I can’t – I’m a wuss. I’ll stick to reading them.
OK, so, like, I have a thing where I have to sleep on the right side of the bed.
Always. I always sleep on the right. It’s MY side. You want to sleep with me? You’re on the LEFT, boyo. Or womano, I ain’t fussy.
There’s a reason for this. It’s a bit weird. Bear with me.
Generally, I like to sleep on the side nearest the door. When I lived in Portsmouth with my ex, in our first proper grown-up house, with our first proper real grown-up bed, I slept on the right, nearest the door. This was in case a murderer came in to our room in the middle of the night and tried to murderise us. I figured that, if I was nearer the door, I could, like, quickly wake up and deftly dodge round him and escape, while he murderised my husband. I know. I’m ALL HEART.
There are flaws to this plan. It’s been pointed out to me many a time. It’s obvious to some that me being nearer the door could, potentially, mean that I get murderised first? Whatevs. I know what I’m doing when it comes to murderers*. So I staked my claim on the right side of the bed. And it’s always been that way. The right side is MINE. The few times I’ve tried to sleep on the left, it’s been WEIRD and HASN’T WORKED. The left side is for losers. YEAH.
Until the other night when I realised I was sleeping in a double bed, all by myself, and I still slept on the right side. Just one side. Of a big old double bed. Half the bed was empty. Has been for a while. Huh.
So I slept in the middle.
Now I sleep in the middle. I’m still kind of near the door. And also nearer the window. But I’m in the middle of a double bed, by myself.
I’m not sure if this is supposed to be a sad post, or not.
Do you sleep on the right, or the left? Does it matter to you?
*Disclaimer: haven’t a fucking clue
Y’all know I’m a virgin, right? I wrote about how I’m not at all kinky and also about how I wear cardigans, which as anyone knows, means I’m a total virgin. Yes, yes, I know I said I wasn’t a virgin, but I lied. I really am. You want to know why? Well. Cos I have never owned a sex toy. Unless you count Benedict Cumberbatch trussed up in my dungeon. But GENERALLY SPEAKING, I have not ever had a sex toy in my possession. No dildos, no vibrators, no (oh god what else is there) erm, shmexy, uh, dancing wiggling THINGS that are, er, inserted in places. Variously. Innit. Quite literally: innit.
ANYWAY. Up until now, I have not owned a sex toy.
But then I bought a dildo.
At the risk of sounding even more virginal, what the FARK do I do with it? What’s the etiquette? What are the dildos and dildon’ts? Do I whisper nice things to it? Do I take it out for dinner? Maybe I should treat it mean and keep it keen? Or, perhaps, do a shmexy dance for it? I’m guessing – eventually – I shall have to use it for the purpose for which it was created. However I have an inkling that I will probably spend a good deal of time sitting on my bed and LAUGHING MY ARSE OFF as it sits, turgid, upon my duvet.
I have never done anything like this before! This is my first proper sex toy experience! I’ve always had, y’know, the real thing to play with, so not really felt a need for anything made out of vulcanised steel or whatever it is that makes it sound all manly and thrusting. I know many couples use a plethora of sex toys anyway, and yeah, I’ve probably missed out on YEARS of sexytime fun parties with just me and my toys, but heck, I told you, I’m an innocent sweet little ingénue. I have never even HELD a dildo before. Or a vibrator. Though I’m a bit wary of vibrators. In my mind, they sound a lot like lawnmowers. I do not want a lawnmower/foof interface on my brain while I’m indulging in some personal lovemaking time. I digress. I have a good idea of what to do with a dildo. Please don’t leave any comments along the lines of ‘oh just shove it up there woman’. I kind of assume that’s the endgame here.
Maybe this will be the start of a beautifully filthy new relationship with the world of sex toys. Maybe, soon, I will be like a Sex Toy Empress. I really DOUBT it though. Once a virgin, always a virgin. My poor dildo will be mocked and left in a drawer to gather dust. Poor dildo! I could send it (him?) on vacations? Loan him out? He’ll get lonely otherwise. He’ll need friends, drinking buddies. Yeah. Anyone else think I’m anthropomorphising my dildo just a bit too much?
I have a dildo. it’s just a cock-shaped piece of stuff. What now? You lot seem, uh, experienced. Gimme some ideas.
In the soft play café. A little girl comes up to me.
Girl: That granny just wiped something on me.
Me: Did she? Oh dear.
Girl: [points at Moo] Is that your baby?
Me: Yes, that’s my little girl.
Girl: That granny just wiped my sleeve.
Me: Is she your granny?
Girl: My granny’s dead.
Me: Oh dear… [looking round for girl's parent]
Girl: How old is your baby?
Me: She’s almost two.
Girl: I think that granny put nose jam on my sleeve.
Me: OK? [realises what nose jam might be] Oh. Oh dear. Which granny?
Girl: [points to old lady playing with a baby] There. I’m going to find my mummy.
Me: OK. [moves away from old lady]
My nickname used to have ‘hotpants’ in it. Yep. When I was young, and lithe, and erm, in possession of a variety of hotpants, I was called ‘hotpants’. Kinda obvious, eh? But those days are LONG OVER. I’ve not hotpanted for years. The sight of my extraordinary arse encased in a scrap of tight fabric has not been on the agenda for many a year now. I’ve basically convinced myself that I do not deserve to wear hotpants any more, cos a) I’m too old and b) I’m too fat. I know. Shocking, innit.
What’s EVEN MORE shocking is that today I went out clothes shopping and BOUGHT A PAIR OF HOTPANTS.
Yes! That’s right. I have LAUGHED in the face of age and SHAT ALL OVER my body insecurities and thought FARK IT TO HELL, I’m going to buy some hotpants and just farking WEAR THEM. Wahoo!
But it was not an easy journey, oh no. I had to try on loads before I found a pair I was comfortable with.
These ones were great, but what you can’t see is that the button isn’t done up. That’s right. I could not get my belly into these bad boys. And the next size up was not available. DAMN.
So I went to a different shop and, for a LAUGH, tried on these spangly ones:
…which kind of fitted weirdly and the sequins itched. Abandon shop!
On to the next one. I was totes determined to find a pair of farking hotpants I liked now. Single-minded. Rabid, almost. Which can only account for me trying on these ones:
…which are made out of PLEATHER. Yes. YES. You heard. PLASTIC LEATHER. I’m not sure what I was thinking. I’ve not ever wanted to wear anything LESS in my life, yet I willingly tried these on. Like a crazylegs person. Can’t really tell from the photo, but they were well sweaty and squeaky. And didn’t fit amazingly well. So they went back on the shelf, and I nipped off to another shop…
…where I tried these:
These denim ones were INCREDIBLY small and tight. Like denim knickers. They almost disappeared up my rectum. I liked the wash and colour but oh my days, they were practically indecent. I’d need to be inebriated, or stoned, or being blackmailed, to be out in public in them.
Luckily, I had also picked up this pair:
Now these I liked. A lot. And the jumper (which I bought. It’s sparkly. I like sparkles. I need sparkles in my life). They fitted, were kind of loose and casual – like me, innit, fnarr – and were a nice colour. BUT. BUUUUT. They’re very summery, y’know? And, erm, it’s not really summer any more. So as much as I’d like to look like I’m swanning around the Riviera on a balmy day, that ain’t gonna happen any time soon. I wept a bit as I put them back. My fervour was dampened. I was starting to despair. I prayed to the hotpants gods. Would I ever find the hotpants to bring back my hotpanting glory days?
Hoopla! The LAST pair I tried. These ones:
High-waisted, dark stretch denim. The farking saviour. I bought ‘em.
Apologies for a post which is essentially just a load of photos of me wearing hotpants. But I figure if I tell y’all I bought them, I’d HAVE to wear them. Out, in public. At some point.
And it’s a confidence boost, y’know? I will probably wear these hotpants with control knickers and tights that go up to my boobs, but at least I’ll be WEARING them.
What do you wear to give you some confidence? What makes you feel sassy and shmexual? And do I look shit?
So as some of you know, my unicorn died. Yep. Tragic. But tasty. In the end, he was tasty.
This is why I don’t really talk about unicorns much any more, it’s just too painful and frustrating, as unicorn steak is not widely available. They’re magical creatures, y’see. Like regular horses, but special. They have a special horn. Special horny horses. The magic is in their horn. MAGICAL HORN. Gotta love some magic horn.
I’m not the only one who likes unicorns. Some people revere them. Some people – brace yourselves – think they are THE BEST THING EVER IN THE WORLD EVER. I’m not judging those people, but they are a bit crazylegs. People like Doreen Virtue, PhD.
‘Who?’ I hear you cry.
Well. Ahem. Doreen Virtue, PhD is a ‘clairvoyant doctor of psychology who works with the angelic, elemental, and ascended-master realms’. YES, YOU HEARD. Kapow! In yer face. She’s basically a psychic ninja doctor of science and is bezzie mates with angels, innit. Farking SKILLZ O’CLOCK.
That’s not all. Doreen Virtue, PhD devised this set of oracle cards:
That’s ORACLE cards. Cards what tell you the FUTURE. Please, suspend your disbelief. Because this shit WORKS. Why? Why does it work when all other fortune telling devices are exposed as nonsensical fakery and illicit scams? I’ll tell you why: because of the FARKING UNICORNS, that’s why.
Yeah. I know. Unicorns are AMAZEBALLS. In the guidebook it says, ‘unicorns are angelic helpers who want to assist us in living healthier and happier lives’. Ah how lovely. Apparently, ‘unicorns want to help you feel happy, safe and loved’. Innit. A woman with a PhD wrote this. Remember that. A CLEVER PERSON.
If you’re still not 100% that unicorns exist, please bear in mind that ‘only children and people who believe can see and feel them’. So bite on that, sceptic. You don’t believe, so you don’t get to see one. Ha! Chew on that logic! The magic of the unicorns is for da kidz. And, as it says, ‘children are aware of, and openly discuss, their unicorn spirit guides’. But do not despair. If you too feel you need some help from the unicorns, just think ‘Unicorns, please help me with this! and they will work with the rest of Heaven to assist and guide you’. As simple as that.
So I decided to consult the cards. It’s like a set of tarot cards, only without centuries of tradition and folklore. I have to knock on the cards to ‘release the old energy’ and then think of a question. My question is ‘what is the actual meaning of my life?’ Pretty heavy stuff. But the unicorns will help me. I am CERTAIN of this. I can’t think of a better way to deal with my quandary.
Next, I have to shuffle the deck and wait for a card to ‘jump’ out at me.
This is the one I picked:
WHAAAAAT. Are you serious? WAIT UNTIL MORNING? Fucksake. C’mon unicorns!
OK, maybe my question was too hard for the unicorns to answer. To be honest, I’m not convinced a unicorn would know what to tell me anyway. My old unicorn just used to crap on my rug and blame it on Moo.
A quick peek at the rest of the cards does nothing to allay my growing disenchantment. There’s a card which says ‘make a wish and expect the very best’. Another which claims ‘the answer that you’re seeking is love’. Wow. Really? I was kind of hoping for the Euromillions winning numbers, innit.
There are way too many cards to show here. All printed with limply saccharine sentiments and a variety of glittering unicorns. My favourite is this one:
…because I’m the glad the squirrel is getting a life lesson from the mythical creature.
And in case you’ve forgotten, the progenitor of these oracle cards is a woman with ‘three university degrees in counselling psychology’ as well as a ‘clairvoyant fourth-generation metaphysician’.
I will totes read the Magical Unicorn Oracle cards for you. Leave a deep and meaningful question in my comments box and I’ll use my skillz to consult the unicorns on your behalf. Innit.
Thanks to my lovely long-time friend Mr Hughes for sending me these cards in the post cos he thought I’d get a laff from them. Did I ever! Brilliant!
When I was preggo I went through a bit of a nasal apocalypse. Certain smells would make me heave. Toothpaste was one. And coffee was another. The husband liked to brew his coffee in one of those knobbly jobs on the stove. I would climb the walls when he did that, like some crazed harpy. Even now I can’t really abide that acrid stench. And I still boak a bit when I brush my teeth.
Which makes me think: I don’t know if my senses ever recovered from the whole having-a-baby shizzle.
So my smelling machinery is farked. My eyes were balls anyway, but now my sight is slowly worsening as I am subjected to hours of brightly coloured children’s TV presenter’s jeans. My hearing used to be pretty good but now all I can hear are the terrifying echoes of Wind The Farking Bobbin Up reverberating about my brains. And touch? My skin is a husk of a dried up sheath of a skin. It has not been the same since preggosville. Everything I touch feels like sand. In fact, some of it is ACTUALLY sand cos every time we go to the sandpit in the park, I end up bringing some home in my bra. Always. Even if I don’t wear a bra.
Other senses? Taste. Who knows. The last thing I ate was in such a hurry – before Moo could snatch it from my paws – that it barely touched the sides. I can taste rum, certainly. Almost all the time. And, erm. The sixth sense. Well, I can’t see dead people. But that’s FINE BY ME.
Maybe I’m just feeling a bit more wrecked than usual today. Maybe it’s cos I’m getting old. Maybe I’m glaring back at my pre-preggo self with rose-tinted spectacles cos it’s just one of those ‘remember when I was thin and shmexy’ days. But having a baby changes you physiologically in all kinds of mentalissimo ways. And I don’t just mean stretchy lady holes.
So. Pregnancy and thereafter. An assault on the senses. Anyone else notice this?