What I Wish I’d Known

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In October’s British Vogue, the industrious Victoria Beckham pens a letter to her 18-year-old self with advice on how to survive a life in the spotlight - from body image to marriage to outlandish outfits.

The feature shows VB, styled by Kate Phelan and photographed by Lachlan Bailey, in a range of beautiful clothes but it was the words that moved me. The letter is poignant and insightful but at times painful. I’ve always believed a hint of sadness and a great sense of humour lies beneath that cool exterior, but here it is on paper.

I don’t live life in the limelight nor was I part of the most famous girl group on the planet. Yet Victoria’s letter made me think about 18-year-old me; with fondness, sadness and a bit of longing for that breezy young woman on the cusp of what seemed like EVERYTHING.

Inspired, I penned my own letter to me with some sage advice of my own. (Sadly without a photoshoot in the Carlyle Hotel).

Dear Nicola

Nothing happens, and nothing happens and then everything happens.

You’ve finished college and have three A’Levels tucked under your Topshop belt (although maybe you should have paid more attention in French class and not spent that study day in France gulping wine with the girls, scoffing frites and chasing a flasher.) Your place at Chichester Uni to read English Literature and Women’s Studies was in the bag and things seemed on track. Then you were offered that job, starting on Monday, and had a few prompt choices to make.

Don’t get me wrong, I understand why you’ve chosen to hurtle down the career route and defer the uni place, honestly I do. The work experience, the financial independence (you can buy a new top EVERY WEEK) and a real chance of buying a flat in a few years’ time is tantalising. When you eventually do this, it will be incredible and many happy, sozzled memories will be made.

All I’m asking is please consider your choice; don’t bottle it, don’t think you’re not good enough. Once deferred, you won’t go. Foolishly perhaps, you’ll waste an inordinate amount of time in your mid-late twenties worrying and regretting and feeling inadequate that you didn’t. In fact, it’ll torment you. You'll feel like you’re constantly swathed in clever, worldly grads. You’ll dream about studying English Lit and gobbling up books and wishing that gap on your CV was filled in. The thing is, I admire you. It hasn’t taken much thought really; you’ve based your decision on how you feel right now and that is utterly content. The older you is far more rational and makes careful decisions but, always thinks the grass is greener. You just went with your gut so that’s cool. Things worked out just fine by the way and you got yourself a post-grad degree later on, but go on, give it a little more thought. You never know where it may lead.

On your image. I know you fret about it and what you look like and what other people think of you. It doesn’t matter how many times people say nice things, you don’t believe them. I won’t fib, it hasn’t got much better. But please, enjoy the freedom of being able to fling on what you like, when you like and revel in simply being a hot young thing. Stride onto that beach, wear something short without pulling it down, give it some welly! In a few years’ time there’ll be this thing called ‘social media’ which has turned us all horribly narcissistic and judgy and dictates we must have kale smoothies for dinner and conform to an unobtainable ideal. When you reach thirty-eight and you’ve had a little ‘un and feel most days like an old frump you’ll think back to eighteen year old you and wish you could wear that crop top from Miss Selfridge, just for a day.

Your obsession with fashion is a pulsating, omnipresent thing even twenty years later but wiser, slightly snootier us would like to think our sartorial choices now are a bit more, sniff, refined. Having said that, f*ck it. Experiment. Do the Brit Pop thing and wear out your Gazelles and that funny blue cardigan. Fall in love with Grunge and clomp about in boots. Wear what the hell you like (apart from tight triple denim - you look like Shakin’ Stevens) and continue to let your fashion choices be dictated by the season or trends, and never by what those silly boys want.

Ah, Men. You seem to spend a lot of time being naffed off with some of them, and quite frankly I don't blame you. Things have got a little better in some ways (we currently have a female Prime Minister and, although completely unrelated to how she runs the country, she wears excellent shoes) but we’ve got a long way to go I'm afraid; unequal pay, everyday sexism, and the words ‘locker room talk’ have taken on a sad new meaning which you’ll learn of one day I’m sure. Keep sticking up for yourself. Work harder. Don’t be discouraged by dickish behaviour when at work, when out with mates at night, when simply walking along the road. I’m afraid there’ll be plenty of that.

When it comes to boyfriends and lasting love, persevere. I'm so sorry to say, you’ll meet some proper twits in the next few years and men who will try and extinguish your fire. Don't let them; they’ll disappear from your memory as quickly as they breezed into your life. It will all feel rather amorphous and a waste of your time. Then, when you least expect it, you'll meet HIM. Timing will be an utter git though; you’ll already have decided relocating to the other side of the world is the way forward. Proceed as planned. The first month will be hard and you will never feel paler, nor more scared or longing for Blightly as you do right then and thank goodness your little sister was there to bolster you. But then you'll turn a corner and it will all work out brilliantly. I promise. Oh, and he will be waiting. There are so many more adventures ahead together.

On friendship.  As the years roll by, you'll meet some wonderful new friends (you still do in your thirties by the way) and weave a rich tapestry of totally awesome mates. Some people will let you down and drift away and it'll hurt badly and you’ll really wish they hadn’t. But your core group are still here all these years later, can you believe it? Sadly, life in your NEARLY 40s is busy and seeing them becomes disparate and a feat of diary coordination. But they’ll always be there and you’ll feel better just knowing they are. You still laugh until it hurts when you see them and morph into those excitable, tipsy big show offs you were in your early twenties when you go out or away for the weekend (but not wearing triple denim thankfully). Their presence will always comfort you.

A quick word about alcohol if I may. Us and booze aren’t ever going to be compadres I’m sad to say. In summary, we’re shit at drinking. Buy hey, don’t let that stop you. Just a few wise words that will save a hell of a lot of money, time and hoo ha. That first night in Malia (shudder) DO NOT lock everything including your passport in your suitcase in the absence of a safe and then go out for ONE DRINK JUST TO EASE YOURSELF IN ON THE FIRST NIGHT. You will dance until 7am, lark about in the sea and lose the key. You'll then blow your holiday booze budget on a call out to a Cypriot Samsonite expert to break into said case, wearing your friend’s clothes for two days while waiting for Samsonite Man to rescue you. Then, you’ll repeat this party trick in Thailand with your girlfriends and nearly miss an internal flight. Don’t accept that complimentary pink drink in Ayia Napa, no matter how jovial the guy trying to get you into the bar is. You will contract gastroenteritis and be forced to fly home after a measly three nights of partying. (You’ll never forget Danuta sleeping at the end of your hospital bed though,  making you laugh. She’s a keeper that one). Also, Thai Whiskey does not just contain Whiskey. Oh, and avoid cast iron radiators after an afternoon of drinking when you’re clapped out and have over done it. Ouch. 

Lastly, on self confidence. This is a huge, huge barrier. It'll cost you tennis finals, it will make your first month living in Sydney painful and difficult and you’ll turn down great opportunities due to pesky confidence-deficiency. My advice? If you’re thinking about it but that inner voice is saying ‘I can’t’, don’t listen. Do it, or at least try it. Be brave. It’s tough I know, there’s no magic overnight cure and you will always struggle, but age will make you wiser and you will care less one day. Believe me. You’ll travel the world all on your tod in a few years time without a care in the world. I promise.

I’ll go now and let you find your own way, but some final words if I may. You’ll learn so much over the coming years that it’ll make your head spin. You’ll love fiercely and, sadly, you’ll lose people that are close to you and it will hurt like hell. But, be strong and be positive. Be curious and polymathic. Read a lot. Live life. Mostly, be kind and gracious and love those around you. Believe me, you are a very lucky girl.

The most heavenly things await.

Love Nicola x

All Change!

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What a difference two months makes!

Since the birth of our baby Evan, life has been tumbled upside down for me and my husband Alex in the very best way.

The day before Evan was ready to make his debut, a Friday, I woke feeling almost human again after pregnancy nausea had left me feeling rotten for the past week. I set off on a day of frenzied activity and darted about the house like a domestic goddess; organising, sorting and cleaning anything that dared stand in my way. I believe this is called NESTING. I posted a blog about talented artist Albert Man. I ventured out to hell-on-earth-Oxford Street to buy maternity jeans. Later that night, we saw friend and local artist Harry Pane perform an outstanding gig in the luminous surroundings of Gods Own Junkyard. I felt a bit like my old self again.

I highly recommend Harry and his work. Not only a brilliant musician but, unwittingly, also highly skilled in inducing early labour. We got home at midnight and settled in but at 1.30 am all hell broke loose and so did my waters. Pregnancy had seemed like an eternity but this was the real deal; off to Whipps Cross Hospital we dashed, nine days earlier than expected. Gulp. 

After 29 hours of labour with Alex and my Mum as excellent birthing partners (plus a gratifying assortment of pain management drugs that transformed my voice into that of Frank Butcher’s) little Evan, ahem, tumbled out at 6.20 am on the Sunday AND THAT IS ALL I WILL SAY ABOUT THE BIRTH. 

Evan and I stayed in hospital for one night (terrifying) and then came home to a lovely welcome party. Since then, my husband and I have been sucked into a frightening, exhausting, beautiful whirlwind where time has no concept. None at all. Forget the Twilight Zone. This is the Baby Zone - which is much more frightening. 

Family and friends often ask me how it’s all going. In summary; it’s by far the most amazing, challenging, exhausting, rewarding thing I have ever done in my life. Like competing in a Tough Mudder Challenge on a daily basis, with added poo.

I’m fortunate to receive a ton of messages and emails. I hope this blog goes some way to explain why I haven’t got back to you yet…

I Can’t. Get. No. Sleep.

You knew it was coming and I apologise for the annoying parenting cliché - but lack of sleep is a total git. A fellow New Mum reminded me the other day that sleep deprivation is a form of torture in some parts of the world. I relate. Being constantly sleep deprived does strange things to you. 

It can make you REALLY F*CKING IRRITABLE (sorry Alex). It can render simple, every day things completely overwhelming. This is unfortunate since being a New Parent involves learning lots of new things, a bit like studying a masters degree in Having a Baby. When exhausted, sterilising bottles with a microwave steriliser, expressing milk with an electric pump ( I hear this noise in my nightmares) and using other gadgets that we are lucky to have in this day and age become as complicated as quantum physics. Instruction manuals may as well be written in Mandarin. My big sister kindly tried to explain to me the simple process of washing, rinsing and sterilising bottles at 9.00 pm one night after a long day and I flopped on the kitchen table and weeped “I CAN’T DO THIS, I DON’T UNDERSTAND. SOMEONE PLEASE HELP” while Alex gently took my phone from my hands, manoeuvred me toward the stairs and informed Jo I would call her back tomorrow.

It can make you forgetful. All around the house are remnants of tasks started but forgotten. The other day it took me an hour to get Evan and me ready to collect a parcel I’d missed from the Post Office. Before leaving I tried to locate the red ‘Something for You’ card I’d had in my hands a mere 10 minutes before. I turned the house upside down for a further hour, checking under piles of washing, peeking under Evan but it did not turn up. I found it that later that night in the tumble dryer. I may have sworn.

Underachieving 

I have a propensity to want to get stuff done and rinse the life out of each day. However, since Evan came along, daily goals have been dramatically and realistically modified. Have shower. *Tick*. Get dressed before 2.00 pm. *Fist pump*. Post card. *Done*. I tell myself “today I will get out before 12.00 pm”. I get out at 5.00 pm, relieved to see daylight and gulp down fresh air.

Who would have thought looking after such a tiny, precious being would be so colossal? It is a military-style operation that requires superpowers of foresight and organisation just to get to appointments on time and keep the Evan cycle (feeding, changing and cuddling) spinning. The house is littered with the detritus of washing, paperwork and breakfast stuff I haven’t had time to put away as the little man has stirred. Messages and emails are stacked up and I’m averaging a one-handed WhatsApp reply every 4 hours. Ideally, my morning would be like that scene in Mary Poppins when, with the snap of her fingers and a spoonful of sugar, folded clothes leap into drawers and beds make themselves. It is not. I am not Mary.

The Launderette

I’ve never done so much washing in my life. I remember someone telling me that when you have a baby, the washing machine is always on. “Ha ha”, I chuckled. “How can that be? It’s a little baby, surely they don’t wear much!”. 

THE WASHING MACHINE IS ALWAYS ON. I am a one-woman launderette, where hand washing, machine washing and tumble drying is done simultaneously and tri-daily. I am literally Dot Cotton in the East End.

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Fashion Faux Pas

I would describe my New-Mum look as Deranged Chic. It’s not so much selecting an outfit to wear, but grabbing the nearest clean, dry, and feeding-functional thing I can fling on. Hair is spritzed with dry shampoo and styled with a skunk-like white streak when I forget to rub it in, or if I’m lucky, washed but left to dry au naturel, i.e. in a shit, flat way. 

Makeup is roughly painted on with one hand, the other bobbing Evan up and down in his bouncer. (A bit like patting your head and rubbing your tummy simultaneously which I was never any good at). 

I’m lucky if I can get my top back on some days as I dash from one room to the next and answer the front door. I leave the house for an appointment, get halfway down the road convinced my dress is tucked into my knickers and duck into the nearest bush to check all is in order. The other day I may possibly have flashed the MOT garage opposite, unaware the shutters were open in our bedroom as I ran in to get the Infacol. (Surely that qualifies me for a discount on my next service?). 

Evan is sick on me at least twice a day. To me, he is my world. To him, I am a tissue. 

Mum Faux Pas

I have become one of those Mums. I say hackneyed Mum-things like ‘I NEVER FINISH A CUP OF TEA!’ and mock raise my eyes to heaven. I drench my Facebook page with images of Evan smiling (pooing). If away from him, like recently watching the legendary Stevie Wonder at Hyde Park an experience to be savoured if ever there was one, I WhatsApped my parents on the hour to ask if he was OK and request a photo to coo over.

Some days I think I’m doing OK. I’m dressed and, crucially, have a top on. I have eaten something. “I’M WINNING” I think to myself “I am OUT”. The other day I was brave and executed a public breastfeed in a local deli. I finished, feeling rather smug for not flashing my fellow diners and put Evan back down so I could finish my tea in peace (see above point). As I bent ungainly over the pram, a very nice gentleman tapped me on the shoulder and said I had, erm, mislaid something. A breast pad, it turned out. Stuck to my left bum cheek. I peeled it off, paid the bill and left a tip and my dignity behind. 

The other day after a walk, I arrived home and popped off Evan’s hat, only to discover a pair of baby socks had been stashed inside the top of it for the past hour. (Sssh, don’t tell the midwife).

Nappy Rash

At our daytime NCT classes, we learnt out how to change a nappy on a pretend baby. Oh, how we had all laughed! “How easy was that” we had sniggered and congratulated ourselves on being natural parents. 

Apply what you’ve learnt to a real, wriggly baby at 3.30 am, chuck in backache, sleep deprivation and a wee in the face for good measure and and it’s not such a hoot. Baby grow poppers are the work of the devil, there to punish Mums who dream of drinking wine and not wearing a nursing bra, as you finally pop everything closed and realised you’ve missed one. 

Nappy changes have made Alex and I slightly nuts. After being told olive oil can prevent dry skin, poor Evan is doused in it on a regular basis at morning nappy changes and smells like a greek salad. We have adopted phrases such as “Make sure his dinky is down” to prevent a messy nappy. We sing deranged songs that don’t rhyme in an attempt to stop him crying like “EVAN, I’M IN HEAVEN, I’M IN HEAVEN WITH MY LITTLE BABY EVAN” to the tune of “Cheek to Cheek” that you would die with embarrassment if anyone heard you (and that the word dinky now featured in your lexicon).

Don’t You Worry 'Bout A Thing

Being a new parent is confusing and terrifying and means learning on the job with help from remote tutors (grandmothers), a bit like distance learning. There is no manual, no algorithm to follow. My Google history is a blazing trail of anxiety. *Baby red face* *Newborn baby red face*. *Normal colour baby face*. At 2am, I’m scanning the BabyCentre, NHS and NCT websites and self-diagnosing imaginary symptoms. On average I check Evan’s breathing every two minutes. I’m not ashamed to say sometimes I walk past his pram and touch his head just to check he is in fact still breathing (which causes him to jump and wake up) and then run off. This makes me feel a little bit mean.

Oh and did I mention that sleep deprivation can make you really irrational? I am obsessed with Evan’s temperature. If he looks a little clammy, the digital temperature is out and under his arm in seconds. “Oh God, he hasn’t pooed in an hour”. “Ah, he’s pooing too much!”. “Ah, he has a rash all over his face.” “One of eyes is only half open!” *Googles poo, rash and squinty eye*.

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Food, Glorious Food

Food is no longer savoured, it is shovelled in and gobbled down at any available window. Breakfast is taken at 12.00 pm, lunch at 4.00 pm, dinner at 11.00 pm. I am the unhinged person wandering around Walthamstow at 4.30 pm, hunting down an establishment still serving lunch at such a time, and nearly crying with relief when indeed they are, ordering “a strong coffee and your finest chocolate-based product please” in an unsteady voice. I often have food in my hair. I am effectively one of Roald Dahl’s The Twits.

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SO, in answer to your kind questions - in a deranged, sleep-deprived and giddy-with-love kind of way, I think we’re doing OK.  

We could never have done it without the support of family and friends with their staying the night, their visits, their kind words, generous gifts, daily calls and WhatsApps. Oh and flapjacks. I couldn’t have done it without flapjacks.

But, of course, I’m messing about. Absolutely none of this matters a jot. It is all about Evan now and I'll take the poo, the lack of sleep and the absence of dignity any day. 

The other day Evan grabbed my finger, looked into my eyes and smiled. Every single stupid, unimportant concern disappeared and I felt a pang of the most overwhelming love it actually made my stomach hurt that was nothing to do with labour pain recovery or the fact I hadn’t had the time to go for a wee in six hours.

Evan is two months old today! He celebrated at 5.00 am this morning by doing an EPIC projectile poo on him, me, our still-quite-new beige carpet and on the baby wipes and nappies I’d laid out. Then he wee'd in my face and hair and gave me a smile. Cooly executed Evan.

Happy Birthday Evan from Heaven. You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen and I love you so much. You break my heart every time I look at you. 

Here’s to the next month... 

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Dior, Maternity Leave and I

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This week I am 37 weeks pregnant and, according to the BabyCentre App, our baby is now the size of a stalk of Swiss Chard.

Swiss Chard! Once again I ask myself, what exactly am I growing in my tummy and what is it with BabyCentre's obsession with vegetables?! Last week it was romaine lettuce, the week before a honeydew melon and not so long ago the baby was the size of an average cantaloupe melon no less. All this talk of fresh legumes quite frankly is not helping with the queasiness.

Ah, yes, nausea. Hello darkness, my old friend. You have returned with a vengeance to torment me and now I am finally, officially On Annual Leave Before Maternity Leave you seem intent on ensuring I take to my bed and weep which prevents me from being in my preferred state - on the move and Getting Sh*t Done. For those who know me, you'll know I'm not a natural relaxer. Slobbing out has never been my thing. Call me crazy, but the concept of a duvet day fills me with dread. I have to be suffering from full-on flu / concussion / hangover or sprawled on a beach lounger with a good book to spend a few hours supine DURING THE DAY. However, the nausea and lethargy is winning this battle, shuffling has replaced power walking and try as I might, I can't go for a stroll for longer than 30 minutes without urgently needing a pee. So, I admit defeat - it's time to put my feet up when the waves of sickness wash over me.

I've made myself a deal though and there is one important clause to this contract. If I'm going to rest up, it will be on my terms. No Reality TV (URGH), idling on Instagram, twitting about on Twitter or, worst of all, faffing on Facebook. It will be didactic and I will be kind to my brain as well as my body. I will gobble up films, books and documentaries that have been lurking about on my viewing list for months, and that are, let’s say, relatively educational from a fashion, film or music perspective. That's fair enough, right?

I'm pleased to report my first venture into this unknown world of Resting has been a resounding success. My inaugural film selection, Dior and I, was extraordinary.

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This beautifully tailored documentary transports the viewer into the illustrious world of the Christian Dior fashion house. Specifically, it provides an insight into the creation of designer Raf Simons' first haute couture collection as new artistic director of Dior womenswear in April 2012.

Directed by Frédéric Tcheng, the behind-the-scenes account allowed me to be a voyeur into this pressurised, sometimes ridiculous but always incredible world of haute couture. The fashion microcosm was waiting with bated breath for Simons’ debut and the documentary perfectly captured the lead up to his first catwalk show - the emotion, dedication, and hard work that went into the making of 54 perfect handmade outfits in only 8 weeks.

It was an absorbing piece of film-making, with the director using words from and images of the iconic Monsieur Dior, which lends an almost spectre-like presence to the film. I really warmed to the hugely creative Belgian designer Simons; he seemed rather bashful to me, calm and intelligent and intensely focused on his craft but always showing great respect for his team of collaborators.

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Justly, the documentary pays homage to the ateliers, the petits mains, who deliver Simons' vision and many of whom have been at the fashion house for years - they are an important part of the brand and its heritage. As Simons reflects in Dior and I, ‘designs change, but not the atelier’. Watching them work their magic is nothing short of enchanting.

What I absolutely loved the most though was the creation of the clothes. Oh, the beautiful, alluring and enchanting vestments and the in-depth profile the documentary gave to their conception and creation with the team working into the night and dealing with the pressure and skills involved in producing fashion art.

The climactic catwalk finale at the end of Dior and I, when Simons’ creations are unleashed to an audience including the Princess of Monaco, Marc Jacobs, Donatella Versace, Marion Cotillard, Alber Elbaz, Stella Tennant, and Riccardo Tisci, is absolutely breathtaking. There is a hugely touching moment when the designer is captured alone on the balcony weeping with nerves just before the show must begin.

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For his Dior debut at 51 avenue d’Iéna, Simons blanketed five rooms with a profusion of blooms from ceiling to floor that had even Anna Wintour impressed.  The clothes were nothing short of spectacular and the collection featured a blend of modern, clean and structured garments with a femininity and elegance that remained respectful and true to Dior.

The strapless gowns with clinched in waists and voluminous tulle sat below the knee at mid calf, a length I absolutely adore. A palette of black, grey, velvety midnight blue and soft pastels contrasted beautifully with the illuminating neon make up.  Trouser suits were simple but oh-so-chic and a striking printed Bucol silk coat and dress was inspired by spray-painted canvases done by Simons’ longtime friend and collaborator Sterling Ruby. Fashion history in the making.

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Simons says ‘I don’t want to suggest in any way I am talented enough to compare myself with Mr Christian Dior…’ but I disagree. 

Dior and I actually moved me to tears. That's not the pregnancy hormones talking, honestly, or the Swiss chard-induced nausea. It was simply my love of fashion and the result of being Christian Dior'd from my head to my toes.

Maybe this resting thing is not so bad after all…

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Things I didn't expect about Expecting.

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I am 18 weeks pregnant. Yikes! 

As an old schoolfriend cleverly pointed out, I am now living in a #maternitywhirl (thanks Lizzie!@Wingham67 ). I've been jotting down some random thoughts about the transition from girl-about-town to girl-who-wants-her-PJs-and-bed. Here they are, in no order of relevance or priority. 

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I miss prosecco. Prosecco smells lovely. I know this because I smelt it at a recent Christmas lunch with friends as they tucked in. I say smelt it. What I mean is I stuck my nose in the glass and inhaled deeply for about 7 seconds. Yes I did. 

Wearing a Baby on Board badge is not simply a visual marker of my gestation, an attempt to avoid a full frontal collision or a silent plea to those (who can) for a seat on the Tube - it is a fascinating social experiment. I am a walking Survey Monkey.

On seeing my Baby on Board badge will you:

(a) peek at and then blatantly ignore it, suddenly feigning sleep as if you have inhaled the scent of deadly poppies like Dorothy and the gang in the land of Oz or immerse yourself in the highly educational and life-critical Guilty Pleasures section of Metro.

(b) stare at me with a defiant expression which pretty much screams 'Your choice to travel lady - take to your bed for 9 months!'.

(c) leap up and offer your seat out of the goodness of your heart, as you know your Mum would want you to.

For most people the survey says (c). They simply couldn't be more gracious and I've had some lovely chats with and apologies from those who were genuinely engrossed in a good book and didn't see me in their periphery.  I totally get it and most of the time I feel very guilty - they've had to vacate a comfy seat after all. Others? Karma, people. There's a special place in hell for you, sleep-pretender. 

The animalistic need to consume salt crackers and hummus, do whatever it takes to stave the relentless nausea and nap at any given point during the day has marginally overtaken the need to buy clothes.

Possibly TMI, but I constantly need the loo. I can wee on demand, if required. Although, to be fair, it's the only party trick I have in my armoury at present, since rapping the entire words to MC Hammer's U Can't Touch This while doing the 'Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh oh-oh' dance (reference: girls in black cycling shorts) and drinking copious amounts of rum is temporarily on hold.

At Madonna's recent O2 gig I went twice in one hour while the support act was on, even though barely a drop of liquid had passed my lips. (I was also keen to avoid a repeat of my attendance at The Girlie Show World Tour in 1993 when me and friend Lou waited excitedly at the front for 6 hours only to realise as the great Madge popped out of a hole in the stage that we were breaking our necks for a piddle, but were alas completely blockaded by the crowd. For the whole gig).

I miss running and playing tennis a lot. My Instagram feed is full of people running, sprinting, training for the London Marathon and sodding well insta-shouting about it. Instead though, me and my bump are walking absolutely everywhere on our own unlikely pilgrimage - I'm the Harold Fry of London. This allows more time to think and more time to appreciate the City. I stop in awe every single time I cross the Hungerford Bridge and take in the twinkling lights of the Southbank. Apparently I can run while preggers, so I may be brave and go for a light jog. Today I did 3 minutes on the treadmill. Whoop! #preggersrunninggoals

Usually on the verge of an emotional outburst at the best of times, pregnancy has sent my emotions rocketing into overdrive. One minute I'm earth-mother, smiling at strangers, waving at children, telling everyone who wants to know that my husband and I are expecting our first child, falling totally in love with everyone on my tube carriage (except you, sleep-feigner) and studiously researching hypo-birthing while eating kale.

When cracker-deficient, I'm John McEnroe. I'm bloody Michael Douglas in Falling Down. I'm effing Gordon Ramsay. I am apoplectic with rage. My jeans are too tight. I need a wee (again). I'm screeching at cyclists THIS IS A ZEBRA CROSSING, YOU ******* IDIOTS!! I'm shoving people back who nudge me for walking too slowly and adding a sharp elbow in the ribs for good measure. 

Then, I'm a blubbering hormonal mess. I cry at the slightest thing. Old UK Garage tunes make my eyes prick with reminiscent tears - Kele Le Roc's My Love (10° Below Vocal Mix) recently caused an unexpected and rather unnecessary reaction. The other day I completely broke down at a re-run of the Great British Bake Off Final, namely at the monumental sight of Nadia and her lovely family and even Mary Berry welling up. YES NADIA, I sobbed, DON'T EVER PUT BOUNDARIES ON YOURSELF EVER AGAIN. NEVER SAY YOU CAN'T DO IT. NEVER SAY YOU DON'T THINK YOU CAN. YOU CAN, AND YOU WILL!! Sob.

Sometimes I forget I am expecting. I literally forget. Maybe it was a dream, I ponder, on a rare morning of no nausea. So I do normal things. I go shopping, I meet mates for lunch. I walk on the treadmill at the gym. I dance at parties. I go to see Madonna at the 02 and get home at 1am. I go to Christmas dos and work in my day job at the usual crazy pace. Then on Sunday I Sleep. Eat. Repeat.

All day.

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Christmas is a funny old time to be pregnant. London is full of hot young things in slinky tops wearing cheeky reindeer ears and molten eye makeup, who fall out of bars and sing Mariah Carey on their way to the next raucous do. I'm shuffling around like a frump, nursing an orange juice at the work Xmas quiz while everyone necks cheap mulled wine and going to Xmas dinners with mates but forgoing the boozy after-grub bit. I'm undecided how I feel about this. Sometimes my FOMO rears its ugly head. Other times I realise I've been drinking for 20 years and could do with a rest. I slip my PJ bottoms on and settle gently into sleep. 

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My body is expanding in ways I never knew possible. It is a miracle. There are parts I don't quite know what to do with; I have a bum! The other day a man knocked at our front door selling fresh fish and stared at my new boobs unashamedly for a good few seconds. Twice I declined his fresh kippers. I'm covering all this new junk in the trunk with floaty over-sized things. Kim K in Balmain I am not, although fair play to her. Instead my maternity-wear inspo is Kate Moss, 2002. Floaty tops, voluminous dresses, velvet, skinny scarfs, accessories and that kind of stuff.

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Hearing the baby's heartbeat for the first time felled me in one pulsating beat. It was incredible. It was also remarkably fast - ARE YOU OK IN THERE?! I wanted to ask my tummy but the midwife assured me it was normal. Although after seeing baby spring about in the 12 week scan, doing flips and acrobatics, I'm worried we've got a live one on our hands. (Like mother, said my husband cheekily) It took my breath away and made me realise, this is the real deal. I walked to work from the antenatal appointment and gave myself a little pep talk. 'It is not just about you now. You are responsible for another human being. You need to slow down, and say no to all the demands and pressures that work and life can bring'. Do it. Now.' I'm trying.

I've discovered some great pregnancy apps to guide me through all the ups and downs, the scary shit and changes completely out of my control. I'm fascinated every day, it's the best book I've ever read. At 16 weeks, the baby was the size of an avocado. At 17 weeks, the baby weighed as much as a turnip. A turnip! What on earth is sprouting in there?! Soon, I'll be able to feel a flutter. Which makes me feel kind of fluttery. It also dishes out helpful advice like 'At 12 weeks your feet may become tired and swollen. Buy some new shoes'. Erm, ok I will. Thanks.

Telling friends and family the news we were finally, at last expecting was one of the most amazing things I've ever done. All these people you adore sending you their heartfelt congratulations, love and support and then seeing them face to face and squealing and hugging and talking about the future? It made all the pukiness, exhaustion and my expanding bum absolutely, 100% worth it. 

Hope you're ok in there Mini K. You're a big part of me already.

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