Waiting for Mother

It's 3.07pm and my Snow Elf and I are waiting for mother. My mother, her grandmother, see? Rather, I am waiting, SE is emptying a box of paperclips onto the floor and eating them. I have stopped caring about what she puts in her mouth. What doesn't kill her etc etc. "It's good for her immune system!" I bark, when friends see her casing the kitchen floor hoovering up yesterday's sandwiches. (Not sure I can use that excuse for the paper clips.)

I am nervous aboutrMother's arrival for the following reasons (here we go, another list:)
- she is deaf
- she doesn't have a mobile phone (see above)
- she doesn't speak much French
- when she sent a parcel of knitting here (no telly, remember, she'll be panicking) the address said "Lucerne" not "Lausanne." I really hope she is not on a train to Lucerne.

Hmm. *fidget, fidget, fidget*.

In other news: threw up in the supermarket today. In a bag (good), sitting on the floor in front of the fruit and veg (bad.) No one asked if I was ok, even though there were spectators. What's the world coming to? I would have asked if I were ok...is that just because I'm an egotist?

My Snow Elf has found the scissors now. Even I have boundaries. A tout.

Hello, I'm a pregnancy bore

Sorry about absenteeism. I am sick. I am nauseous all the time and 2-3 times a day I actually commune with sweet, cold porcelain. I have also forgotten how to blog other than Write Lists. So here is another one, this time, of the foods I have gone off:

Tea and Coffee (good)
Alcohol (quite right too)
Chocolate (sounding like a health kick now)
Anything greasy or fried (go girl!)
Vegetables (wait a minute..)
Fruit (No! No!)

and what I actually fancy
Bread
Potatoes
Pasta (no sauce)
Tinned ravioli (bonkers!)
Digestive biscuits with cream cheese and marmelade topping (what's not to like?)

I am also very constipated. Fancy that!

Dr Happy Frankfurter

Had my first gynae appointment with Dr Happy Frankfurter. She lived up to my Swiss stereotype of being extremely thorough and getting very into the science of it all. I was in there for an hour, having a million questions asked (am I immune to cytomegalovirus? No idea. Like asking if I'm immune to green monkey disease), five vacutainers of blood taken and a scan. Not much to see at 8 and a half weeks, except a teeny tiny blob - all looking good, thank God.
"And remember," said Dr Frankfurter, "don't eat lettuce in restuarants because you don't know whether it's been washed!"
"Right-o" I replied, blowing a carefully-crafted smoke ring in her direction and pouring myself another tequila slammer. "No unwashed lettuce. Will do, doc."
We meet again in one month's time.

Emma's tricks

On the slow side...
1. Clapping (she still spends a lot of time examining her hands and then when she tries to clap, misses)
2. Walking (balances for a bit with no hands when standing; then decides crawling is the more interesting, speedier option)
3. Feeding herself (why should I have to when I have slaves to do it for me ? - ed)

...but in the following very advanced
1. Making monkey faces!
2. Dropping things!
3. Looking cute!

What's on my kitchen floor

1. Crumbs.
2. Matter.
3. Baby spoon, one.
4. Plastic bricks, seven.
5. Yoghurt pot lids, two.
6. Pea and sweetcorn kernels, countless (these I just don't see anymore.)
7. Hazerdous objects like drawing pins that my Golden-Haired Snowelf will definitely eat, also countless (comment ibid.)

What's on my kitchen surfaces:
1. Dirty pots, pans and crockery, as far as the eye can see.

What a responsible person would be doing now instead of blogging:
1. Clearing up the kitchen

What I want to do now:
1. Be sick.
2. Go to bed.
3. Weep.

Snow Elf, the sequel

I am eight and a half weeks pregnant.

"I'll eat my hat if I'm pregnant!" I boldly announced to a friend the other day. "I may be late, but I don't feel anything!" She smirked and then handed over a spare Clearblue. I stared and stared at the result, and then stared and stared at the Norwegian instructions. The window showed a + sign, which means "Gravid" (a - means "Ikke Gravid.") In shock I trotted off to the pharmacist, and hunted about for a test with English instructions. I think they call this denial.
No English, but the German, Italian and French instructions all told me I was "schwanger", "enceinte" and...OK, I've forgotten the Italian...but knocked up, in the family way, up the stick.

We are extremely happy. A kind of solid happiness that even the words "Double Buggy" cannot falter..But it is early days, maybe too early to tell the world, but the sickness has started and I can't pretend I've got gastroenteritis. At the moment I am on 1-3 yaks a day, unpleasant enough, but a Caribbean holiday compared to the night-and-day yakfest I experienced first time round. Still, the tiredness is very extreme and I've spent most of the last 2 weeks in bed, or standing on the street in my pyjamas, asking strangers if they wouldn't mind taking Emma out for a bit.

Why blog?

Now there's a question. In brief, the answer is
a) to give my narcissistic witterings to the world, whether or not the world is interested
b) to have the feeling I'm doing something a bit creative
c) to keep in touch with folks back home, in particular when well-meaning friends say "So...what's it like?"*
* when I get asked this question, my answer is either "Oh, y'know...it's fine!" to people I suspect are just being polite but actually don't really want a long-winded answer or "Read my blog" to anyone I feel will fall for my shameless self-publicity and/or are handy with a mouse.

My long-winded answer would be a bit like this:
"Well, I'm pretty happy..the Elf is happy. The Swiss are OK, if the French-Swiss are a bit shy and hard to get to know. They have some odd habits, like a deep love of fennel and anything made from fennel, like fennel tea. And they eat horse and pigs' ears, in fact the meat counter is like an endurance test. Sometimes I wonder what I'm doing here, and I just wish I could walk down the street and catch bits of English conversation. If I hear someone speaking English, I gaily introduce myself and produce my phone number, even if they are only passing through on holiday. I don't like the clothes shops here much, it's all a bit 80s but without being post-modern and retro. And baby clothes are very expensive and covered in Barbie or Snoopy or some other overly-conspicuous branding. I regularly daydream about what the other Tooting babies are doing, who is walking and who has teeth and who is off their food. I miss curry, there is no Indian food in this town. And let me tell you about the health care! Er....I'm so sorry, am I making you late?"

Not been shopping. Fridge is empty.

hmm, half past five, the GHSE getting scratchy, what to give for tonight's tea?...pokes around in forbidding bowls of leftovers and rummages in store cupboard...bustles about about 'twixt hob and microwave and comes up with

couscous!
peas!
tuna!
a mini babybel melted on top!
and
tomato ketchup!

She loved it, of course.

I urgently need a change in my media life. I'm not talking about getting a TV, even though I know that BB6 has just started, filling me with all kinds of urges. I need a new English-speaking radio station, one that isn't World Radio Geneva.

I can't take anymore of the rubbish, irony-free jokes and the flabby pop singles, especially that Rachel Stevens one that goes "the-case-is-closed-I-won't-negotiate-with-love." Please reassure me that this is not a hit back home, that my countryfolk are more discerning. The adverts make me want to lie down and weep. Example:

"Moving abroad? Then Harsh Transports is here to help. Let Harsh Transports take care of your national treasures and give you peace of mind! Trust our professional moving team and let -*sound of articulated lorry carreering along motorway, about to crash*-Harsh Transports take the load!"

This is not meant to be funny. In fairness, I think they are Harsch or Hersch transports, but this is R-A-D-I-O, people, and I would never entrust my worldly goods to Harsch/Hersch/Harsh transports anymore than I would fly Deathtrap Airlines, even if it only happened to be owned by Mr and Mrs Dethtrapp.

They have the world service news, though, which is a good thing, and a very good (BBC) music programme on in the evenings.

The Snow Elf awakes, my time is up.