I got my hair did, in the words of Missy Elliott

Hiya. It's been hot, hmm? Stinking hot. Oh-my-gawwwd-get-those-patio-doors-open-hot. No-duvet-on-the-bed-hot. I-cannot-physically-bear-to-do-the-ironing-hot. Various appellations, one particular breed of muggy Belgian airlessness. Pregnancy may have assaulted my skin (I'm a red-chinned hormonal mess at the minute), robbed me of some fairly major independent memories (Adam: "You used to live with a girl called Jenny. She was a nurse. She lived in your house for four months." Me: "I have no idea what you're talking about." I am GENUINELY FRIGHTENED that my brain is about to DISAPPEAR) and I have a furious hunger that CANNOT be sated no matter how many ricecakes with peanut butter I gorge upon, but by far the most noticeable side effect is that before I was always cold. Now, I'm always hot. I have my own personal central heating system and it's the size of a canteloupe, apparently. 

Anyhoo. I'm researching creches since I was openly laughed at for not having found one yet. I cannot believe that this child is still in utero and I'm browsing websites depicting arty 50mm shots of fully-grown toddler cherubs with golden curls and gap-toothed smiles having a wonderful time shaking tambourines at their weekly 'La Boite a Musique' class and scoffing organic mid-morning snacks. Yerr whaaaat? And it's all taken on a new urgency since it turns out that the childcare option I sort of had my eye on charges 100 euros per day. PER DAY. Or, in alternative fiscal terms, two grand a month. Hahahahahahaha. Hahahaha. Ha. 

Ahem. And so we will be pursuing other avenues. 

OK, that's my scintillating pregnancy update rant over with. You're welcome. 

So today I had my hair copperfied/de-greyed in Belgium for the very first time. Yes, I have lived here for over two years. No, it is not at ALL preposterous to go back to the UK every time one needs a haircut/colour. My big fear was the language gap: that I would explain in halting French that I wanted a shaggy fringe and my layers tidied up and that somehow that would translate into, 'SHAVE IT ALL OFF, BIG BOY!" Anyway, turns out the owner of the salon is from Manchester and everyone in there is trilingual (of course they are) and the girl who did my hair was actually so chatty I could hardly finish my slutty hairdresser novel. Although she was Spanish (I think), she'd definitely picked up a trace of trademark Belgian directness: "No, we must use permanent colour, the semi-permanent will not cover the grey." Thank you. "And I will not use a toner or an ammonia colour because your hair is dry and in bad condition at the ends." And again, I thank you.

Anyway, it turned out nicely. Gratuitous selfie:

Voila, no grey! And ze hair is in much better condition. Merci, Desiree. 

And this is the slutty hairdresser novel:

There is an apple sticker in the groove on the floor - I am a slattern. 

Everyone reads shite at the hairdressers: it's international law. Plus, in my defence, the choice was this or Cosmo which actually had a two-page spread on 'Decode his Emojis!' BUUUH. Anyway, you've probably heard the premise: mid-20s newspaper hack is paid to have a sexy social life by The Telegraph; it all goes a bit Pete Tong in a sex-and-drugs-and-misery kinda way; but then JUST as she gets herself a prescription for some anti-depressants she meets a fella and has a baby and life becomes all rainbows and kittens and bucolic idylls. As frustrating as it sounds. Yes, I am a prude and a bore. Whatevs.