Good thing he is pretty...

So I was reading an online newspaper and came across this headline:
'Meet the Great-Grandmother who is only 25 years old!'

Reading between the lines and considering the date, I, of course, understood to what the article was referring and read it outloud to Steve.

There is a silence.

I repeat it and add,

"Guess what date she was born on!"

Steve: Ummm... your birthday?

Me: No.... she is 25 and a great grandmother, guess her birthday!

Steve: How would I know? My birthday?

Me: No! How are you not getting this? She has had 25 birthdays but is actually 100 years old... so her birthday is...?

Steve: HOW THE HELL WOULD I KNOW?! I thought you said she was 25, now she is 100?!

Me: IT IS 29TH FEBRUARY STEVE! For the love of cheesecake! Bloody hell! How else would she be a 25 year old great grandma?

Steve: I just thought she was a really big chav.

Jam it up!

As I believe I have neglected to tell you, we are moving in just over a fortnight. I mean, what else would you do when you are 16 weeks pregnant other than pack up you and your husband's entire lives, inform what seems like a billion companies of a change of address, rearrange insurance, council tax and utilities and work full time eh?

Anyway, today is sorting out Livy's Clothes Day.

I know.

I am currently sat in my living room, surrounded by clothes, black sacks and a marker pen. Now, it turns out, I am ruthless. I have said goodbye to the jeans I first kissed the Steve in, the pink tweed Kookai jacket and mini skirt suit that I spent my first pay packet on (tis hideous by the way and hasn't fitted me in 6 years) and my beloved pink Tinkerbell hoodie.

There is an exception though....

Pyjamas.

Cuuuuuute. Incidently I do not own this pair. Although I wish I did.

Counting up I have 11 pairs of jammie bottoms (less tops for some reason) which seems excessive for a woman with only one bum. Just to be clear, those 11 don't count the pair I am currently wearing to bed or the two maternity pairs I have stashed in a carrier in the spare room.

And I cannot get rid of any of them.

It seems I am doomed to stay in bed a lot...

Controversial Monday

Yes peeps, it is Controversial Monday!

Having reviewed the Oscar coverage from last night, seriously, it is like the mothership is calling me home, I have come to a bold conclusion and realised that I have a regret.

I regret not being a trophy girlfriend.

Now, I know what you are thinking, trophy girlfriends aren't something you should aspire to be. They are a VERY BAD thing in the world and surely not something that a kickass feminist woman such as myself should regret not being.

But, let me explain myself.

I would hate to be a trophy wife or a forever trophy girlfriend, if you see what I mean, someone only valued for their entire lives on their looks and not who they are. That would suck.

But, how much fun would it be to spend six months of your early twenties with a disgustingly rich/famous man, having luxurious holidays and meals and visiting fabulous locations and attending amazing events?

Knowing that, while he is valuing you only for what you look like, you are using him right back for all of the above. And then, when you are done, you leave and find someone who loves you for you and all that...

I realise, of course that I am sounding more and more like one of those 18 year olds on a Findmeasugardaddy.com type site and that also I have planned for a proper rich and successful boyfriend who is also fairly hot and a maximum of 45 rather than a wrinkley and limping 72 year old randy old man.

In fact, I am really thinking of George Clooney, I mean seriously, lucky lucky Stacy Keibler. No idea who she is but so far this year she has been to the Golden Globes (gorgeous in red Valentino), the SAG Awards (stunning in black Marchesa), the Critics Choice Awards (super hot in white Armani), the National Board of Review Awards (ravishing in black and silver Marchesa with a Jimmy Choo clutch) and now, finally, at the Oscars, resplendent in yet another Marchesa gown but this time in gold. And all on the arm of George.

Seriously, just for a few months, how much fun?

Dilemma of the Day

Three afternoon snacks of the week left.

Three yoghurts left.

One strawberry, one raspberry, one apricot.

I love the strawberry. I like the raspberry. The apricot is ok.

Do I apricot it today and get it out the way knowing that tomorrow I am at another, desperately awful site at work so apricot would only be kicking me when I am down and that Friday deserves at least a raspberry?

Hmmmm......

And sleep....

Since I have been up the Hilary, one thing above all others has been true: I am knackered. Tired does not cover it. My usual post work schedule is thus:

• 6pm - Get in, make pleasantries with Steve
• 6.30pm - Argue with Steve over tea as I don't feel like anything in particular and the fact that Steve tries his hardest and comes up with a million options that don't appeal is obviously his fault
• 7.15pm - Eat tea
• 8pm - Fall asleep in the big chair while Steve watches TV

Last night was following the same pattern except, as I settled down cosy with my blanket, ready to doze off, safe in the knowledge that Steve would wake me around 10.30pm, ready for bed, but then I noticed a noise.

A snore.

Momentarily I was startled. Was I already, in fact, asleep?!

Quickly I realised that it was in fact a certain Sir Steve who was quietly snuffly and grunting in his sleep on the sofa. This was an issue - I couldn't sleep now! No, I was now the responsible one; the one who was relied on to get us to bed at a reasonable hour; the parent who rouses their snoozing children and turns the telly off.

I did not like this.

And I knew, knew, that the only option was to wake Steve and head straight to bed.

Unfortunately I accidentally decided to fall asleep myself as well.

Which is why we both awoke in the living room, tv on, lights on, grumpy at 2am.

Pink and cute and fluffy and needed

I have spoken before about my Valentine's Day thoughts and this year Steve and I had an agreement. As our anniversary is on the 26th February then we would make no fuss for Valentine's. Just cards, maybe a takeaway or nice homecooked meal. We don't need all the extras and fluffy hearts and besides, I can't drink anyway so why bother.

So I was all buffered up when I went into town yesterday, no temptations, I was stalwart. I ignored all the pretty things I saw in Debenhams, I distracted myself from the sparkley, pink trinkets in House of Fraser with a delicious bowl of porridge and an apple juice and then I came to Paperchase.

And there they had lovely things. Like this:

And this:

And this:

It was all so lovely. But I was strong! I was good! And I left.

I went to Marks and Spencers. I breathed deeply and was sure that I WOULD NOT buy anything. And then I saw something so wonderful, so fantastic that you would have been cross at me if I didn't get them.

Heart shaped marshmallows!

Have you ever heard of anything more fabulous?

Which is why I have four packs of them, some pink floating candles and a special dine in for £20 Valentine's dinner....

I told you there was news coming....

I am pleased to introduce you to the newest member of the Livy/Steve household. Who, although small and hidden, is making him/herself very well known.

The baby will be arriving in August and, while I am sure there will be (many) baby related posts, that will not be all I will talk about and, if I start referring to myself as Mummy or Steve as Daddy then you have permission to berate me.