2010

An intense kind of year, and one that I find difficult to remember, even though I wasn’t drinking for most of it.

The end of 2009, as dear Tot A has recalled, was a horrid one. This time last year I was driving through the snow to Cornwall, my belly still sore from the operation that I’d had ten days before, hoping that no-one would see me crying in the dark. Things went on in pretty much the same vein for the next 4 months, when we hauled ourselves off to the basement room at the hospital to start all over again. I can only apologise for those dark days, especially to my Tot and DJ S. I don’t think I was very easy to be around. But as he points out, we learned things from it, not least the importance of each other in our lives, and that this leap in the dark is one worth making.

May saw a return to form, with a weekend in Maremma with seven ladies, a lord and a licky little dog. Our exploits were extensive. I hadn’t laughed so much in months. Once back in London, we embarked on round two, a regime that forced me to get over my lifetime fear of needles, as I mercilessly plunged one into my belly every night. Again, as Tot says, the details will be divulged in our forthcoming joint blog (slash new memoir to be commissioned by my publishers), but it all ended up with me, legs akimbo, naked to the waist, as my faithful Tot sat by my head as a nurse brought in a tiny embryo on the end of a pipette and popped it into me.

Seven months later that little embryo is still inside - the boy that will become Nicolo’. I can’t wait to meet him.

What else? Well, the house, the house. They say that moving house, bereavement and having a child are the most stressful things in life (oh, and divorce - we managed to avoid that one). We kind of did them all this year. It’s hard to moan about the house, because it’s wonderful and I know how lucky we are to live there. But.... Broken promises, missed deadlines, builders everywhere, the smell of paint permeating every room, packing up possessions every two weeks and finding somewhere else to sleep. This was not the time to be incapable of carrying things. DJ S deserves a medal for lifting my bags and soothing my frustrations at not being to get out there and get on with it.

Like Tot says, though, it’s finally becoming home, and maybe in the New Year I can finally indulge those nesting instincts. The boy needs somewhere to sleep!

And in the meantime, I wrote a book. I don’t really know how that happened. I do know that amongst the hoo ha, and the running around between house and hospital, the library was, as ever, a haven of peace and tranquillity. The Albanian café next door fed and watered me. The internet worked. And so Spencer and Alice will be making their way into the world about a month after Nicolo’, between the covers of The Proof of Love.

All’s well that ends well, indeed…

Baby’s First Gaga

To the O2 arena for what I insisted on referring to as a ‘pop concert’, causing DJS to look at me with mild pain and panic in her eyes. Yes, as part of my unrelenting campaign to expose the unborn child to as diverse a range of pre-birth experience as possible, we braved the snow and ice to attend Lady Gaga’s Monster Ball.

And what an experience it was!

On arrival I was overjoyed to be whisked into the VIP queue and spirited upstairs to our hospitality suite complete with bar, snacks and - most important of all in my condition - lavatories complete with Molton Brown ginger and cinnamon handwash. Blessing DJS’s rock connections I settled down happily into my seat to watch the show.

Lady G was, of course, marvellous, biting off the head of a stuffed Santa between songs and peaking in a bikini that emitted sparks from her nipples and vag. The baby badger loved it, obeying her instructions to jump to the music, flipping around inside me like a 90s raver on speed.

We took the tube home, mulling over the possibility of some pregnancy pix wrapped in police tape a la our heroine in the Telephone video. Yah.