Double whammy

He's out! Nicolo' Giovanni, 03.03.11



And so is this! The Proof of Love, 01.04.11

Great Expectations

Tick tock, tick tock.

With one week to go until the forecasted arrival of the firstborn, time is moving slowly. As a distraction, we have been throwing ourselves into a frenzy of preparation, like the good little Boy Scouts that we are.

1. Cot assembled by the Man of the House: tick!


2. Suitable (and enormous) artwork affixed to nursery wall: tick!


3. Birth pool inflated, creating an ambiance that I like to think of as Californian Vacation. Mojitos in the hot tub all round: tick!


4. Hard core drugs stashed in fridge (and rapacious flatmate instructed on pain of death not to take them): tick!


5. Birthing equipment purchased and stashed next to pool: tick!

The latter including, of course, a couple of fetching black rubber sheets from an establishment in Old St, known as Expectations. On hearing that our midwife had suggested Ikea shower curtains as a preventive measure against leakages, the lovely Uncle Monty shuddered, then rallied to take matters into his own hands. A couple of days later a discreet brown paper package plopped onto the doorstep.


Apparently, if ‘You like it moist or really wet…. You can really get going with the Wetgames sex-sheets! Splash sex and massages with oils creams and all other liquids, e.g. champagne. With Wetgames you can live out your fantasies without any morries!’

When I called Monty to thank him, his attitude was, as ever, refreshingly practical.

‘My pleasure, dear Lady V. We couldn’t have you giving birth on a shower curtain. If those sheets can withstand people jizzing all over them, they can surely cope with a bit of amniotic fluid. And remember, they’re machine washable, so you can use them again.’

Er, quite, Monty, quite…

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.

Photographic evidence

Well, summer’s over, and what a summer it was…

So frenetic that only now, fortified by a steaming cup of autumn tea, do I find the time to record it.

There was the traditional Maremman romping at Porno! the Party, a quick dash back to Blighty for The Great Move (to be re-enacted all over again in 3 weeks’ time, for reasons too tedious to explain), the obligatory Summer Wedding at Cliveden and a hop over the pond for Vermont Revisited. Whilst all this was going on I found the time to do the edits on the next book. Exhausted Marjorie!

Obviously I forgot to take any photos. Except one. I like it a lot.

Out on Monday

Trip to Chinatown with Crunchie and Squiggy to be arranged forthwith to procure photos of said book in front of shops to justify their trip to China last year "to help launch Lady V's novel." Gina requires photographic evidence!

Seven ladies, a lord and a licky little dog (woof!)

Ah, a Maremma meadow. How delightful. How serene.


Arriving late at night, as tradition dictates, we congratulated ourselves on far-sighted purchase of produce and the perfect lesbian fridge.

Dominata did some nifty work on some Roman tomatoes and Borough market walnut bread, coming up with some fabulous Greek-style bruschette, which we gobbled with gay abandon, washing it down with some last minute additions from a roadside stop.

In the following 48 hours we left the house precisely once, to forage for booze in nearby Scansano. Squiggy (Italian spelling at all times!) applied her not-inconsiderable tasting skills to the job in hand.


DJ S was simply overwhelmed by choice.



Back home, surrounded by swirling fog and driving rain, we applied ourselves to Making Our Own Fun. My mother would have been proud. It sort of went like this.

Prosecco swilling in profusion, combined with copious weeping at matinee viewing of A Single Man.

Constant grazing on salty snax and finger food (thus alleviating the need to sit down at table but rather, drift in and out of kitchen, drink in hand, food in other in style of glamorous-cocktail-party-slash-health-spa)


Fencing practice with various kitchen items, to burn off above-mentioned snax and release any spare aggression.


Hilarity at Misterpackit clingfilm, leading to ribald discussions on length and girth and near assault on the boi.


Prom night! A small misunderstanding led to half the party bringing slut-frox and tuxes, the others forced to rummage around in drawers for old favourites, but no matter! We all rose superbly to the occasion, aided by a small collection of Cuban cigars that we found tucked away in a box.

The main fun was, as ever, getting ready.


We groomed and picked and combed at each other like the good little primates that we are.



Although I did wonder who that young filly was in the jailbait outfit.


She seemed to get on rather well with Lord Leng.


FKJ put up a damn good fight as resident House Daddy, styled by yours truly in the style of Helmut Newton.


Although I’m still not sure what she did with that cigar.


Whilst Sherlock Squiggy (copyright Sicily) played it cool on the terrace,


And DJ S and Lady V played nicely in the kitchen,


There was a Sicilian stand-off on who got to use the potty.


Ah, making one's own fun. How wholesome. Cannot WAIT to do it all again at Porno!

Thanks to Leng for the snaps. Obviously I never got round taking any of my own....