Just sing already, fat chick

OK, so resembling Mr Greedy post-Haagen Dazs binge is starting to get a little old (rather like my placenta). Its got to the point where tapping someone on the shoulder in a shop to ask them to make way is a weary pastime - they glance, they move a fraction; I tap them again, they look down, their mouth slackens in disbelief; they swiftly shift as if to let Moby Dick and the participants of Celebrity Fit Club make passage, flattening themselves against the baked beans and just resisting a shout of "Thar she blows! To the boats, and may God protect ye!" as I pass.

I feel like a comedy prop (Tweedledee, back end of pantomime horse, Jo Brand) of the highest order: personally, if I was talking to me, I wouldn't be able to hold back a giggle or three, or restrain myself from pushing to see if I wobble like a Weeble (but don't fall down). I just look really, really funny, and am spending at least 20% of my time thinking about waists, hourglasses and belts cinched tight around ribless bodies, or pressing my size 8 high-waist Warehouse shorts caressingly against my cheek and murmuring "Soon, my pretties, you will be on me once again.....or will you? Will you??" And then I weep. Well, nearly.

So I grow weary of feeling like the punchline to a joke, and never was this more apparent than while encountering a traffic warden recently, accompanied by two equally preggers friends. Seeing him standing sinisterly by the car, we all started to uber-waddle across the road, waving our arms to make him desist from issuing the ticket...."But look...we're PREGNANT!" It was too late, but am sure he's had a few sleepless nights since, and dined out on it a few times: "So I look up right, and there's these three pregnant women running towards me...well trying to....I thought they were gonna drop right then and there...boom boom!" (Drum roll, appreciative laughter, more wine, cheese straw.)

Hey ho, it'll all be worth it I know. Am now half a week 'late' and showing no signs of incipient labour (apart from the gigantic gut). Baby is clearly very comfy in there, despite the lack of guest bedroom or incense. I am pretty comfy too, considering - my hands have stopped feeling like hams, my feet not too sore, my backache non-existent - really, its fine. But every encounter with a normal-sized friend reminds me that I am in fact a pot-bellied pig, and even J has started sighing wistfully in rememberance of abs past. "I just want my skinny baby back" he admitted bleakly the other day, when trying to lift me up and finding my feet stuck stubbornly to the floor. And I am pretty sure he wasn't referring to the svelte nature of our unborn child...

Oh and I made apple crumble the other morning. At 8.30am. I think that says it all.