...in a galaxy not so far from here...

I’m a planet. It’s official. Such is my girth, I deserve at least one moon and maybe some stylish rings or something. I got to work this morning and when I took off my coat (and consequently adjusted the air pressure in the office) a couple of the girls sing-songed at me, ‘You’re getting bigger!’ I’m all: I KNOW! GAH!

It seems I've had an overnight growth spurt. I’m convinced in and of myself that it must be some kind of karmic reimbursement for what I did to my poor unborn child yesterday: I took it swimming.

Not exactly run-of-the-mill cruel and unforgivable torture you might think, but lemme tell you this: I don’t have a maternity bathing suit, and such was the spontaneity of the activity that I hadn’t ample time to go and get one. So, I squoze (if that’s not a real word, it should be… SRSLY…) my baby belly into my normal bathing suit, DESPITE its clever ‘tummy control’ panel. Is this morally objectionable? In 14 weeks time will I deliver a squashed-up baby, or one with a wonky head like Stewie from Family Guy? I shudder to think.

Besides that, the consequence of my belly taking up 80% of the room in the bathing suit was complemented by my boobs being dragged about 3 inches south of where they should have been. You know those holes where you’re supposed to put your breastesses? Yeah. You know what I’m talking about. Rrrrreally sexy.

Maybe I better bite the bullet and fork out the £15 and buy a new bathing suit. Because -- oooooh baby was it ever lovely to be all floaty-like and weightless in that water yesterday. Retrospective apologies to any of my readers who may have happened to be at Killingworth Leisure Centre at approximately 1 o’clock yesterday afternoon; that glazed-over lady with the rapturous (and probably very dorky) expression on her face was me. I floated on my back… I floated on my front… I made Jason hold my feet while I floated half sitting up… euphoria. In the last week or so, I have been experiencing a little bit of an achiness in the small of my back -- the microscopic army of tiny gnomes that my body has employed to chew on the nerves of my spinal column there were like, ‘What the hell’s going on? Is she dead, or what?’

£15 therefore sounds a reasonable investment. If, for nothing else, than to outfox those pesky gnomes.