Muscari Armeniacum: An Enthralling Adventure

There are many things associated with pregnancy; swollen ankles, puking, cravings for chocolate rabbits at 3am, being a stupid cow. I have none of these. I have something worse.

Much worse. I have developed a compelling and unhealthy interest in bulbs. Yes, bulbs. So, armed with some kind of beginners bulb selection box from Woodies, on a torrentially rainy Sunday afternoon, I set about transforming our small back yard into a horticultural Wonderland. And now, I am so taken with their little green shoots I can't help but go out and check them in the morning before work. The fact that I am already late for work doesn't deter me in the slightest. Oh no, I just have to see those little green shoots. 'Oh little green shoots, don't you think you're up too early, why it's only Christmas? Here, snuggle up to these dead leaves, all cosy, that's it, head under the covers'. It's uncontrollable! I'm mothering my bulbs!

My book 'How to Garden' tells me in the preface that I am 'embarking on an enthralling adventure'. And the most frightening thing is THAT'S EXACTLY HOW I FEEL!

Next week's episode: Flapjacks: One spoon of golden syrup or two?

Action Man!

One thing I love about BFAP is that he is a man of action. He takes it upon himself to do all sorts of things at lightning speed. Like frantically painting the house, that's frantically, not carefully. It's a useful and endearing trait.

So it was with great enthusiasm that he took on the fraudulent letter I received telling me I had won a Spanish lottery (I hope it was fraudulent, 700,000 euro would come in handy). The bizarre spelling of my name was his first clue. 'O'Bocharpaigh, let me see where have I seen that written? I know, it's the ESB! They've sold your details to a fraud company! No wait, it's Eircom! THEY'VE sold your details! I'll ring them up right now' he said with delight.

'Hello, yes I'd like to make a complaint ... you've sold my personal details to a fraud company ... I know they got the details from you because you both spell my name incorrectly ... Yes, it's O' B_o_c_h_a_r_p ... '

He smiles with glee as he holds the line and awaits their excuse. He's caught them red handed.

'Hello, yes? The phone book? Oh ... they got my address from the phonebook? Oh oh, em no I'm not supposed to be listed, oh well, never mind, we'll live with it, no no, that's fine, no nothing else, okay bye, thanks.'

I giggle about it for hours 'Hello! I'd like to report a fraud, yes Fraud!'
'Well, Miss I went to Cambridge, you didn't spot that it was the phone company either!'

And yes I did ask to be listed in the phone book, I'm the only O'Bocharpaigh in there.

School's Out!

I feel like having a party! Imagine my delight when I found out at Irish class tonight that our Christmas break is a whole month long and starts now! No more homework! What I mean is no more guilt about not doing my homework.

Let me explain. I decided that my current job involves going to work too much. So I thought I would become a primary school teacher and have lots of lovely long holidays sitting half in, half out of my (imaginary) campervan, swinging my legs, idly watching the scenery and sipping moscow mules. And occasionally checking on a happily sleeping baby. Oh of course I want to TEACH also. Of course.

In order to make this dream a reality I need to take my Irish school exams again as I didn't shine in them the last time - 18 years ago. So I enrolled in a night class. Specially designed for people like me - people who were taught by senile old priests who kept throwing them out in the corridor.

Oh it all started great, the enthusiasm, convinced I would wow everyone and get an 'A1', spending 5 hours translating an article about 'Na Buachaillí Google' on a Saturday afternoon. Yes I was a prize pupil. For about three weeks. Then I began to get sullen, you know, I missed a class, I found myself drawing ponies and rabbits on my books, the múinteoir's ceisteanna annoyingly interrupting my pelvic floor exercises. It seems he has mistakenly taken my front row presence for eagerness to learn when really it's just that I'm too fat to get up the steps to the back row.

Múinteoir: 'Ceist a trí Evan?!'

Truculent: 'Eh eh, dú...'

Múinteoir: 'Go on GO ON you have it, you're NEARLY there! Dúir....?'

Truculent: 'Eh Dúirt mé ..?'

Múinteoir: 'YES!'

Anyway, now that it's the end of term I congratulate myself just on waddling into class (nearly) every week. Mostly because I want to see what happens in this play we're doing about a girl who kills her baby. I am encouraged to see the curriculum still contains plenty of downbeat material. Homework? Surely I don't have to do the homework! I'm PREGNANT!

There Goes Breakfast

French toast, bacon and maple syrup. The weekend breakfast. God it was good. So good that I'm reluctant to throw out all the bacon in the fridge despite the government warnings. I mean, BFAP only bought it this morning, at 3 am this morning on his way home from work, loads of it! Do I really really have to 'destroy' it. And what the hell does that mean? I assume it means 'putting in the bin' as last time I checked we did not have a meat destroyer unit.

Almost worse than the fact that I might have been feeding my precious unborn child contaminated meat is the incessant smug voice of Mama Earth in my head. Mama Earth, as I have just decided she is called, she's the one always going on about lavender and yoga and stuff and now she's having a field day.

Mama Earth: 'Told you. You should have been eating organic the whole time'

Truculent: 'SHUT UP! Do you think I have time to go round hunting for hippy dippy organic stuff all the time. I can barely hold down a job these days!'

Mama Earth: 'You would have made the effort if you really cared'

Truculent: 'I DO care! It's just I think all the food we buy should be safe. And frankly I'm too tired to get up and go to the market on a saturday morning'

Mama Earth: 'That's a pathetic excuse'

Truculent: 'Look if I only had to sit round all day making felt and yoghurt, or whatever it is you do, maybe I'd have time to consider every little thing I pop into my mouth'

Mama Earth: 'I make polished stones actually'

Truculent: 'Whatever'

Mama Earth: 'Didn't I see you drinking a big mug of coffee the other day'

Truculent: 'SHUT UP!'

Too Posh to Push

I have a secret. I secretly want a C-section (even though I can't spell it). Although my boyfriend* has pointed out it's not really a secret when I keep saying 'I secretly want a C-section' to everyone. In a rare moment of clarity I realise that this is not because I am too posh to push, it's because I'm so damn posh I'm too posh to admit that I'm too posh to push. How confusing.

Instead I am foolishly planning to give birth with nought but a sprig of lavender, a giant paddling pool and some sugar pills. Apparently. I don't remember deciding this but there we are.

Sigh.

*If I had known that 'The Boy From Another Planet' was going to become so significant in my life I never would have starting calling him 'The Boy From Another Planet' as it is very long so we are just going to have to call him 'my boyfriend' until I come up with something better.

The Fabled Pregnancy Sex Dream

Finally! I had the fabled pregnancy sex dream last night. Just when I thought my libido was gone forever and I was on the fast track to unsexy housewifeness (not that I am married) so despised by whatshername, Gordon Ramsey's mistress. My brushed cotton penguin pjs are far worse than a velour tracksuit.

At midnight I was seriously compromising my good girl image with four random strangers. By dawn, three of us were in the shower. It all ended badly when this woman just got a bit too handsy with the father of my unborn child and I stormed out of the bathroom, only pausing to pick up my pink and white toy unicorn. 'Well she may have my boyfriend but she's not getting her handsy hands on my unicorn' I thought with grim satisfaction.

There were two dead giveaways it wasn't real:
a) I do not own a toy unicorn
b) I did not go 'ow ow ouch my hips!' while climbing out of the bath but leapt out like a young gazelle.