Skipping the weekend

We had a lovely low-stress weekend in Barcelona with my best friend Gary (I really need to count up all my best friends one day) and got back on Sunday night exhausted. I like Barcelona, and I want to live there someday when I've completely lost my sense of smell. They do this sunshine thing over there that I could really get used to. I will write it up properly right after I finish writing up the visit to Ireland.

Other than that, I have mostly been thinking baby thoughts. On Saturday evening, while we were eating dinner, the baby started kicking - or headbanging or something - in time to the background music. This was unbelievably weird. I mean, yes, I know it's another person currently living in and off me, and not just a body part, but it was the weirdest way of driving this home I've ever heard of. My book says it won't be able to hear sounds from outside the womb for at least another week.

I seem to have reached a point where the completeness of the, um - well, it's a bit like Strongbow. I invited the invader in, so I can't really complain when it annexes six counties and a spleen. It just feels somewhat freaky. I'm still pleased, and I get all excited when it wriggles and jiggles and tickles insider, and I feel well and healthy generally (wobbly legs and semi-constant stitch notwithstanding), and it's one hell of a strong baby. It can leave me temporarily winded by dive-bombing my diaphragm, and when it stretches out in my right-hand-side I bulge lopsidedly. Bits of me are changing colour as scheduled, which is also incredibly weird, and I'm getting more interested in my own digestive system than anyone ought to.

I'm not sure I'll want this kid to be born. I have a feeling I might get too attached to having it live in me. Does this happen? Is this one reason why people get pregnant again so soon sometimes?

... and domesticity

I am profoundly grateful to myself for cleaning the bathroom, kitchen and dining room so thoroughly before we went away for the weekend. Homecomings are far pleasanter when they don't involve clouds of fruit-flies and puddles of mouldy washing up water.

I spent yesterday in bed. But I did get the pantry stock-taking done, and a new order placed, and we finished all the Christmas cards and had enough stamps for all of them. Rob did a load of laundry for me.

Today I tidied the master bedroom a bit, and sorted some paperwork, and did more laundry (delicate knit cardigans; I'm a little concerned about them, but I must trust to the great washing machine controller in the sky and hope that they come out the same approximate size they went in), and made a glorious cup of almost-but-not-quite builder's tea; it was hot and weirdly brown and milky and sweet, but it should have been stronger. I got impatient. I drank coffee at the weekend, twice; I felt very daring. I drank alcohol, too; I think I may have had as much as three units over the course of 28 hours. I like semi-colons.

Later I need to call our insurer to see about changing the policy to fit better with our new mortgage, and then I must post the signed mortgage agreement to the new mortgager. I should also do washing up, but it's mostly saucepans and I don't enjoy saucepans. You can float the plates and saucers in the sink, and sink them with teaspoons and things, but saucepans have no scientific possibilities once you've overflowed the basin to prove Archimedes might have been right.

I should get a feather duster. I have a dust allergy; I should deal. Should should should shan't. Chocolate.