Gingerbread Woman

Fear not regular blog followers

I haven't fallen down the bowl whilst attempting to simultaneously lean over and hold my own hair back. Nor has the interminable wait in the Whitechapel Albion Health Centre, least customer friendly doctors surgery in the world, forced me to leapfrog the desk and set up camp there until they find a way of not totally alienating each and every one of their clients.
Naught nearly so exciting has befallen me in fact.
I've been sleeping.
And, on the few occasions when getting out of bed seems remotely manageable (read, the days when work is unavoidable and I haul myself to and from), I've been technologically impoverished. I can't blog from work. The government secure, no tales of Jonny P from here dearie, internet, won't let me on.
It's due to change. A friend of a friend found me a full on PC for a bargain basement £120, and better still, is delivering it, but not for another few weeks.
I have however joined a library (which, we're so cool in Whitechapel we don't call a 'Library') think instead 'ideas centre', and, assuming that the entire student population of the East End aren't in on the same night (which is rarer than you'd think), I'll be back to semi-regular blogging in the meantime. Only they severely time limit me. Half an hour in peak.

Sixteen minutes left.
How come I used nearly half my time and I haven't told you anything yet? I've got three ready written blog entries to tell, saved up and lovingly edited and all, but sadly, time's too sparse, it'll have to be edited highlights.
I'm writing. Loads. I have left the telly in the loft. I've always fancied a telly-free existence and I've got it. It's lush, I'm doing loads of virtuous things that counteract the demon in my belly determined to bring me down.
I shouldn't be mean about Tadpole E.
He's cool, I saw him on a screen last week (another unofficial unscheduled one, following another short bout of bleeding), and no, I don't know yet that he's a he. I will find out though and will be happy to share the news. I just reckon he's a he.
He's nuts. It took them twenty minutes to measure his head (tells you how old he is apparently) because he wouldn't stop bouncing. Little sister said 'it's about reflecting you, if you're bouncingng he's bouncing'. Only I was midway through a week off work in which I had literally done nothing except sleep, sloth stylie. We've concluded he's got ADHD. That may not be the right letters but you know what i mean, Constant bouncing caffeine dosed stylie disorder.
Nine minutes
I saw the midwife last week. Albion health centre, appointment was ten. She let me in at 10.45.
Took a call at 10.55.
Made one at 11.
Had a long chat with her mate about how 'no way is your appointment today darling' at 11.05. Convinced said friend to see the next patient for her ( I assume, but, may be wrong in doing so, that said friend was a fellow midwife)in exchange for the forgotten antenatal appointment.
Popped off to deliver labels to friend at 11.15. Found a spare urine bottle for friend at 11.20. Bloodpressure thing 11.25. Took another call. Complained about how an hour was never long enough, asked me a few questions, popped in to do her mate's appointment as mate's son was waiting in the carpark, complained about being late for the clinic and then looked at me like I was a non-breastfeeding demon when i dared to ask a question. Threw me out two hours later.
Answer to question was no, the hospital here doesn't have a birthing room, has a labour ward. Synchronised pushing. Collective screaming. Multi-womb coordinated tearing.
Uh huh. That seals it. I'm moving out of London to deliver!
no minutes.
Miss you already

posted by The Gypsy @ 8:16 pm