Friend or foe

Each time Yuan sees me now, she reaches out a hand to cup my ill-formed paunch (instead of pregnant, I look like I’ve just consumed a platter of burgers) and exclaims loudly. She does this not to gauge the growth of my very young tadpole, but to indicate to others in the vicinity that I am in a family way, and she a close ally.

It’s the same behaviour she exhibits when I say, “Let’s take a look at the showers in the basement” if I’m contemplating on using them because our boiler at home broke (it did) and she announces to the room, “Yes, you should be able to use these. You remember where they are? You go down to the basement and turn RIGHT. Okay?”

Because it pleases her if she can make me seem like a simpering idiot that needs all the help she can give me.

Today in the stairwell, after the shower fiasco, she cupped my belly again and then ogled my massive mammary glands for a moment before decidedly reaching out and poking these as well: They are so HUGE, Friday!

Yes, yes they are, Yuan. Thanks for the friendly reminder.

Our boiler broke, did I tell you? We haven’t had hot water for a few days, no thanks to the rental agency whose job it was to maintain the thing in the first place, and who is already waffling about sending over any but the least expensive tradesperson they can drum up. I have an appointment with a midwife tomorrow afternoon and I do not want to show up without having had a hot shower. Emphasis on hot.

Aside from being a princess who cannot condone a jet stream of less than 23 degrees Celsius on a good day, I am now a moderately pregnant woman who will burst into tears over a missing button on my top, or tomato sauce. Spluttering and shivering under an icy stream first thing in the morning, or leaning my growing uterus against the rim of the bath with a heated kettle in hand is simply not an option.

Anyway, no amount of railing at my poor defenceless husband or the bastards that put us in this position in the first place has made any difference whatsoever, so I’m left to direct my frustrations elsewhere. I’m at work, which is a dangerous prospect for all involved.

Here, read this – the BBC really knows how to make a gal feel safe about the prospect of giving birth overseas.

Oop! And more excellent reading material for the flight home next weekend.

I promise I’ll write something uplifting soon, like when somebody invents calorie free Haribos.