The Brit gets back from Amsterdam tonight. He's been there for 3 days for work, of which I took the opportunity to pack a suitcase and head, running, to my French friend, Mademoiselle, for two nights.
Mademoiselle is an interiors genius, and besides being a wonderful friend who has offered me her spare room while the builders extricate our windows and floors, her home is a sanctuary of calm and beautifulness in an otherwise chaotic London.
Mademoiselle has helped inspire my new decor choices and shares my intense fondness for garlic. Given there is a tube strike out there causing riots, stampedes and bad bad behaviour, we have been working from holed up in her lovely home together the last two days.
I have been a bit sick, battling with acid reflux and nausea and henceforth guzzling on Gaviscon like it's nobody's business - mmm. Chalky - and she's been looking after me, by feeding me ridiculously healthy things like kale and grilled salmon.
All in the serene, gorgeous surroundings of her lounge:
The Brit gets home tonight, and he promises that we might even be able to move back into our bedroom tomorrow night (if the carpet is laid.) This is, literally, the best news ever.
It means we might actually be released from The Pit. And we can sleep in an actual bed again.
But for this afternoon, I need to leave the clutches of Mademoiselle and head to the hospital to learn how to breastfeed.
Yes, there are classes for what is meant to be the most natural, instinctive thing on Earth.
"These classes will teach you how to get them to latch on. There's a latching angle involved."
Wow. And so the intense foray into motherhood deepens.