Go comp-aaaargh

This morning I woke up with the song to that advert for the comparison search engine site in my head, you know, the one starring the fat twizzly-moustached tenor and his floating arias, urging folk to stop thinking about the clever branding of that other comparison site (which has used the differences between the words market/meerkat to such fabulous effect), and click on his instead. He even has an online identity - Gio Compario (a productive afternoon was clearly spent in the pub by the creative department), and, like his furry nemesis, a Facebook fan page (2687 members compared to Aleksandr Orlov's 615,766 -I mean who would you rather be a fan of, a comedy-accented playboy version of the cutest animal on the planet or a fat annoying faux-Italian? Simples!)

They have achieved this early morning seepage into my weary psyche by coming up with a jingle so brain-drillingly catchy that even Pete Waterman must be asking how they roll. It, though this may well have featured in the pitch literature as a plus point of the campaign, makes me want to garrot Gio Compario with his twizzly moustache, then feed him to the cast of True Blood. "GO COMPAAAARE! GO COMP-AAAARRGGHHH!" In fact, if that was the follow-up ad, I'd visit the site for sure.

Anyhoo, it doesn't matter much, as I find myself with precious little needing insurance (except my son, and I haven't got around to it yet - I'd say several million to protect the perfect sphere of his head with another couple of mill for his pointy little chin) as the year draws to a close. No car, no new electronic gadgetry, and as for bling - I'm not that kinda girl (although I wish I was). I've been thinking I should make a will, being a mother now and all, but the fact is - I don't have much to leave, so the process could prove rather embarrassing: "To my son, I bequeath my laptop, which may have some kind of virus and is very slow to load Facebook these days" - at least he'll get away without inheritance tax.

One thing I do have in abundance right now, although it might not work in a legal context, is flesh. About an extra 10 kilos, if my mum's scales are to be believed. While it is very sweet of all who have said "You've really got your figure back!", what they are neglecting to mention is that I've also got some of somebody else's, and would quite like to give it back.

Trying on clothes is interesting: I have to squeeze and force bits of errant jelly into stiff material which would rather not receive it, thank you very much. And here's the thing: although I know I have enough fat reserves to deal with the extra 500 cals a day breastfeeding requires, so this and a sensible diet are all I need; now I feel cheated if I haven't had the requisite man-sized portions, extra butter and chocolate snacks of a morning, and think nothing of adding dollops of mayo to everything I eat (even the choc). Serves me right for listening to mother at the onset and deciding that 3000 cals a day was the way forward. For the record, its not. Hold the front page!

Before I gave birth I was convinced getting back into my size 8s was a simple matter of walking briskly round the park avec pram a few times a week, I now realise that was stupendously optimistic. But god bless optimism, where would we be without it? I even bought some control pants (the kind of garment I'd previously looked at with a patronising smile and pitying shake of the head), but optimism led me to buy them in a size so small it took a good 5 mins to get them on, which was good for my fragile (compared to before, and I don't need Gio's website to tell me) ego. Ditto not understanding that the chest of a milkmaid requires a size larger than 12. Denial: not just a river in Africa or a stubborn infatuation, but the mind of a postnatal woman. God bless.