OK, I may have been joking about the sex change. Let's move on.

We are going to the UK for the weekend to celebrate my cousin Helen's wedding. This will be the final time we go anywhere in fact as in 2 weeks I am officially too fat to fly. The embaressing thing is, I was questioned about my stage of pregnancy last time we went home - about 2 months ago. I can't say I blame them: I looked like Mr Greedy even back then. Now I look like I might fall frontwards at any moment.

Even though I am still just about legit for air travel, I still need a certificate to say I'm having a healthy pregnancy and there is very little chance I will actually y'know drop midflight and leave gunge and claret all over your orange Easyjet upholstery yadda yadda yadda. And because I am one of those highly-organised, control-freaky types, I left it til today (we fly in 3 hours) to try and sort one out. I admit my palms were sweating when I couldn't get hold of Happy Frankfurter for an hour or two this morning, and was even grateful to speak to her Frosty Receptionist (they sort of cancel each other out in personality terms.) After a short lecture about being very disorganised- it's a fair cop - I waddled all the way over to the surgery to get it while Emma ate biscuits and pointed out the dogs en route. What a disappointingly scruffy document! What appalling handwriting! No official will believe me when I give it to them to read. Maybe it says "this person has eaten too many cakes; laugh at her"?

OK I'd better get my girl fed and clothed before we go. We leave in half and hour.