3.6.08

OVERDUE BLUES

violet bearegardeI've got to at least *try*.

I want so much to be upbeat and hurrahtastic about life, in my writing at least. Writing is magic: it turns mundanity to gold. Even the dullest party can seem a little bit glittery when you write it down, even if all you did was watch strangers dance while your best friend gets off with a boy in a toilet and you get rejected by a gay man when you weren't even after anything from him, not even a line.

But the reason this blog's been so dead is because, well, the last few weeks of pregnancy really ARE as shitty as everyone says they are, and who wants to write / read about that?

Well, me. I do. Inspired by Baby on Bored, a whingetastic blog if ever there was one, I have decided to just fucking go for it. Whinge for Britain. I've also been greatly enjoying whinging on Mumsnet with other people in the same boat as I am, e.g., several days past the day when the baby was magically supposed to hear a big ding-dong DEALINE EMERGENCY BEEP BEEP WHUP WHUP bell going off and start heaving itself out of my vagina - oops sorry, i mean 'birth canal'. (Love that image, as anyone who is familiar with Regent's Canal will understand. Though perhaps it is not as distant as I might hope, as several of my friends have drunkenly tumbled into Regent's Canal, and several of my friends have also drunkenly tumbled into my 'birth canal', though the rates of survival do seem to be higher from the latter, cases of infection far more rare, and an ambulance was only required for extraction that one time).

Anyway. I digress. Though I sit here at eight in the morning after another sleepless night, with my swollen feet plunged in a bowl of ice-cold water, and a frozen flannel beside my laptop ready to apply to my carpal-tunnel-plagued wrists and fingers every half-sentence or so, and though my belly is so big with child that I look like Violet Beauregarde just before she had to be rolled out of Willy Wonka's chocolate factory, I must write.

If I do not write, I will explode. I no longer care about public image, maintaining a persona, or turning shit into gold through the alchemy of textual intercourse. Sometimes, shit is just shit. And the last few weeks of pregnancy, with a baby inside you that refuses to budge? It's shit. And it's time I started to admit that.

Watch this space.

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