Things that are a Very Bad Idea, especially when one is six-and-a-half-months pregnant and it's a Wednesday night less than two weeks into the new school year:
Reading about Rotherham's sex dens of iniquity and shame.
Eating far too much (admittedly divine feta, pea and mint) omelette.
Twenty minutes of half-arsed yoga and guilty push-ups.
Three West Wings. No. I don't care if it gets you to the end of Season Five, young lady. Never again.
All of these are terrible, terrible ideas and will leave you a broken woman.
So we have started our antenatal classes. As anticipated, equal amounts of comedy and horror. After a bit of chatting and some tea and snackage (snacks: a cool 8/10 - there was cake, chocolate-coated waffles, butter biscuits, jaffa cakes and grapes) during which one of the blokes showed up all of the others by saying that his reason for doing the course was to 'learn how to become a more supportive and loving birth partner', the men were hustled off into a corner to play with a plastic pelvis and and curiously coral-lipped baby doll and the women's conversation seemed to segue effortlessly into full-on horror mode - like, talking about things I have NEVER EVEN HEARD OF starting with 'perineal' and ending in 'massage' (DO NOT GOOGLE. DO NOT YOUTUBE) and questions about 'ordinary' Belgian birth practice, like the 95% epidural rate in some of the bigger hospitals and enemas and episiotomies almost as standard.
At this point, I was having a mouth-agape Kurtz moment while everyone else seemed to be nodding sagely. I need to do some reading, clearly.
But anyway, we're not really supposed to talk about it, let alone blog about it. It's kind of like Fight Club. Nevertheless, I shall try to stock up on some suitably anonymised comedy-horror moments and report back.
Things that are a Very Good Idea on a Thursday (last lesson of the day, Year 9):
Poetry needs more white gels from Lahndahn, innit.
Reading about Rotherham's sex dens of iniquity and shame.
Eating far too much (admittedly divine feta, pea and mint) omelette.
Twenty minutes of half-arsed yoga and guilty push-ups.
Three West Wings. No. I don't care if it gets you to the end of Season Five, young lady. Never again.
All of these are terrible, terrible ideas and will leave you a broken woman.
So we have started our antenatal classes. As anticipated, equal amounts of comedy and horror. After a bit of chatting and some tea and snackage (snacks: a cool 8/10 - there was cake, chocolate-coated waffles, butter biscuits, jaffa cakes and grapes) during which one of the blokes showed up all of the others by saying that his reason for doing the course was to 'learn how to become a more supportive and loving birth partner', the men were hustled off into a corner to play with a plastic pelvis and and curiously coral-lipped baby doll and the women's conversation seemed to segue effortlessly into full-on horror mode - like, talking about things I have NEVER EVEN HEARD OF starting with 'perineal' and ending in 'massage' (DO NOT GOOGLE. DO NOT YOUTUBE) and questions about 'ordinary' Belgian birth practice, like the 95% epidural rate in some of the bigger hospitals and enemas and episiotomies almost as standard.
At this point, I was having a mouth-agape Kurtz moment while everyone else seemed to be nodding sagely. I need to do some reading, clearly.
But anyway, we're not really supposed to talk about it, let alone blog about it. It's kind of like Fight Club. Nevertheless, I shall try to stock up on some suitably anonymised comedy-horror moments and report back.
Things that are a Very Good Idea on a Thursday (last lesson of the day, Year 9):
Poetry needs more white gels from Lahndahn, innit.
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