It really is the small things at the moment.
I won an auction on eBay! Have you ever won an auction on eBay? Have you? Do you know what it's like? It's flipping marvellous, that's what!
When you're dueling until the final second, with another bidder, feverishly clicking the "increase maximum bid' button, feeling the same rush of emotions that I felt that one time in a casino on my gap yah, when I got addicted to a slots machine, and you're sweating and it's all going cray.
And then, then I actually bloody won.
I was bidding for a cot. Not a car or anything flash, but the cot usually retails for £115 at John Lewis, and I got it for £30, which I am immensely proud of.
I know I need to find another one, but baby steps. Literally.
The problem here is this first spot of luck has immediately made me addictive and glued to eBay. And now I'm bidding for all sorts of things.
Well, a changing table to be fair. Which is in Luton. (Fucking miles away, but don't mind picking it up if I get it for a pound.)
God. I have turned into my mother. I knew this would happen. I am my mother now.
Have also unwittingly upped my hot chocolate consumption considerably. When I say 'upped' I really mean 'intravenously pump hot chocolate around my body not Rhesus D negative blood.'
I mean, everyone loves a steaming cuppa hot choccy, especially when it's crispy cold outside and the frothy loveliness of a good mug of liquid ecstasy gets your loins stirring.
But you probably indulge in a mug here or there right, it's kind of one of those 'occasion' things, like New York cheesecake or bunting.
I am clocking a couple of cups a day.
I insist I can still go to a pub and have a lovely time with friends, just so long as the pub serves hot chocolate and I definitely get a seat.
Most pubs don't offer either of those during peak boozing times, so really not seeing much of the inside of a pub at all lately. Which suits me just fine.
The other day I was to meet a friend at a more-than-posh place in Mayfair after work; the kind of place that serves cocktails in long vase-like glasses, and where everyone wears black and the walls are Sanderson crushed velvet and there's a doorman.
Usually I kind of like these types of places, because there are no geezers draped over the bar being loud and bolshy. However, I arrived slightly earlier than my friend and ended up, after 12 minutes and 6 seconds of waiting (not that I was counting), high-footing it out of there so quickly, due to unforeseen panic attack bought on by bump paranoia.
Bump Paranoia is what happens when you have a large belly. Where you walk into a pub, and immediately think people are staring at your bump. This then manifests into you thinking that people are judging you for your bump. Or more accurately, judging you for being in a pub, with a bump.
Whether it's true or not, I felt like a duck out of water. I couldn't order a cocktail, and it definitely definitely wasn't the kind of place that served hot chocolate - Ohmygod could you imagine even asking - so I freaked out and got the first bus out of Knightbridge.
Anyway. Where was I. Ah. eBay and hot chocolate.
The other thing I'm trying to avoid, and have been told to avoid, is bad advice. One can't always dodge this, but when it comes to having a baby(s), people like to dish it out, whether they've been there or not.
The one's I have realised fast to avoid are stories about "a friend of a friend who died on the birthing table," or "Make sure you eat bananas, otherwise your nipples wall fall off, like my sister's did."
I have had a bit of this - from cousins, friends and others. And it freaks me out. So am trying to avoid at all costs. Even if I live in ignorant bliss about my nipples, being disemboweled during birth and other freaky phenomena, like piles.
Possibly the worst titbit of news I've heard re. childbirth is the following, "Oh my God, you do know you shit yourself right?"
And that's why I'm opting to have a c-section.