04 June 2008

Eggs of terror

This moment of relative sanity is brought to you by Suede, low lighting and fluffy pillows.

Aw yeah, Internizzles, I’m working from home today.

I’m not sure if it’s the malnutrition or the cabin fever or the hormones (yes! yes! yes!) but I am irritable as all get out and the NHS is not doing a thing to help.

I’ve been trying to book my eleven-week scan for the past three hours, on and off, and each time I ring them, a recorded voice goes:

I’m sorry, but this line is busy (weighted pause)

If you would like to request a call-back, please dial 5

So I do, and then:

I’m sorry: that service is unavailable for this type of call

What - the type of call a pregnant woman must make between the hours of 9 and 5 when she’d normally be at work, where presumably nobody knows about her condition because she’s not yet three months in the clear? GET. OUT.

And then, THEN, the Marks & Spencer website gave me a full, 55-page report on food allergies, when all I need to know is: CAN I EAT YOUR EFFING BELGIAN CHOCOLATE CHEESECAKE IF I AM PREGNANT OR NOT?

Because it says something about two pasteurised egg yolks on the packaging and nothing about raw or baked. And by the time I was halfway through their List of Gazillion Products That Include Soy, I was nearly finished eating the damn thing. Let it never be said that I am unfamiliar with risk assessment!

Last night, I somehow managed to eat my way through (and keep down) an entire pan of cannelloni, in spite of the fact that it didn’t taste or feel very nice. But it was my first hot food in over a week, my first bit of animal protein, and god be damned if I wasn’t going to enjoy every bland, middling, fat-laden mouthful.

This - coupled with the fact that Bruce had cleaned the entire flat on his own with no prodding from me - was enough to persuade me to live my life a bit. So I watched an hour of the excellent BBC series Age of Terror before hitting the hay.

At this rate, my kid is going to emerge one nervous ball of eating-disordered anxiety, and it will be my fault. Though with half its father’s genes, it will know how to wash a dish.

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