Today, for the first time I’ve found a quiet corner of the foyer on the ground floor of the office block. It’s tastefully decorated with large watercolours on the walls, leather chairs and solid oak tables. There’s calming background music and soft lighting and the air smells vaguely, attractively sweet. I wonder how I’ve never noticed this place before.

Over the past few months I’ve been less and less to the local coffee houses and bars. I don’t really know why. Or perhaps I do….vaguely. I was a different person, no midriff bump to tell the world that I’d been fucking without the use of a prophylactic. Is that the first thing that comes into people’s mind whenever they see a woman carrying a baby gut? Do they instantly have an image of her on her back having the beginnings of a baby squirted up her?

Thinking back I can probably recall the very instant his life-giving semen started its fateful journey. It was a Sunday morning after he’d hauled himself out of bed to visit the bathroom. I’d vaguely heard the pissing sound as the deluge hit the water.

Then he’d crawled back into bed, his big hands snaking around my body to cup my left breast, before sliding down over my hip and around to nestle in the soft curls of my pubic hair. Searching for the starter button and finding it already slightly erect. And that was the beginning. That was generally how it always started on a Sunday morning.

Well…. my world has been well and truly rocked. Here I am several months later, less able to see my feet, than I was the last time I opened up my lap-top, with the intention of communicating with those few of you who are still interested in what has happened and is happening in my little life.

I’m as round as a barrel (probably not true, but that’s how I feel). My waist is daily disappearing; my ass is expanding into next week; I’m starting to waddle like a duck and as for my breasts…… lets not go there. Of course he likes the new cup size, even though I was never small to start with. Men!

It seems like an age since I watched with bated breath as the little blue line appeared on the pregnancy test stick, confirming that I was at long last in the club. I’d wanted this so badly. And don’t get me wrong, I still want it. But I want it to be over. Now. Today.

Some lucky women I am told, enjoy the nine months it takes to incubate the egg into a fully functioning independent life-form. For me, so-far, it’s been day-to-day vomiting and increasing discomfort. I’m not so much blooming as ballooning. And the daily slog into the city isn’t helpful or comfortable. I don’t know how I’ll feel when I start maternity leave.

Everyone says that it’s the best time of a woman’s life, like having Christmas every day.

Every morning he kisses my bump and almost as an afterthought remembers that I have lips. He’s already the proud doting daddy. Is that all that I am? He’s been out a bought a pile of books; Baby Names; Bringing up Baby;  Baby Tips for Dads, The Expectant Dad’s Survival Guide etc, etc….. There’s a trend forming. Who’s having this baby anyway?

Of course he says that he doesn’t mind what it is. But I know he really wants a son. And I’d love to oblige, even though there’s a little selfish part of me that would prefer that the little, screaming bundle arrives with a sweet little vagina between her legs.

We still make love, more at my insistence (if you can call it that); a constant desire for food in the shape of soft iced-cream, asparagus and avocado isn’t all I crave……. all the time. I’ve never felt so overwhelmingly horny. I’d happily bend over the sofa or kneel on the edge of the bed twice or three times a day. Of course he obliges, but he’s always so… so God-damned careful, loving and gentle, it makes me want to fucking scream.
But the orgasms… God! They don’t just make me go weak at the knees, they actually turn my bones to water, and make the atomic bomb go off in my brain. Some of you ladies will know what I mean.

There is of course the other side of the news I divulged last October – my mother’s cancer diagnosis.

For her the last five months have brought hospital visits, chemo, radio therapy, nausea, dizziness, sickness, hair-loss and bloating, (sounds familiar – apart from the hair loss). It’s hard to watch someone you love, who was so alive and vibrant at the start of the year, slowly transform into a listless wraith, staring into space, lost in her own diminishing world.

Even so, she tries very hard to be cheerful, which kind of makes it harder for those of us who love her.

So now you have my letter of excuse. I promise it won’t be long before I take up the reigns of the story again. Now, where were we………..?