I'm not usually one to take any notice of our worryingly popular tabloids and certainly would never compliment them by buying one, but they do get left lying around in odd places and I can seldom resist a flick through. It's the same morbid curiosity that makes us look at the aftermath of a car crash as we drive past, however much we don't want to.
Over the weekend this meant seeing a photograph of some WAG or other, five months pregnant and already looking as if she had a Zeppelin under her jumper. As I glanced down at my own near-flat middle, I didn't know whether to feel smug or envious.
I settled for relief at not being married to a Premier League footballer, most of whom seem to think chastity is a mispronounciation of Chester City and that monogamy is a dark wood.
Coincidentally, two friends both had their weddings on Saturday, neither of which I was able to attend. Which is probably just as well, because the cake wouldn't have stood an ice cube's chance in the Sahara the way my pregnancy cravings and appetite are persisting.
Neither of the ceremonies were in this country, and although invitations and airline tickets to both were received, a busy few days kept both me and The Bump rooted in Brighton, where in the city centre the first Christmas decorations have been strung up across North Street. As, indeed, should be whomever is responsible for them, and not merely because there's still a sixth of the year between now and the tide of Yule.
These seasonal banners straddle the road at regular intervals, and look like threadbare fishing nets with a few token lights attached surrounding a child's drawing of Santa. One can safely say they'd have been better advised spending ten quid in Poundland, or not to have bothered at all.
But as usual, commercial promotions are out of synch with the calendar. George at Asda will still sell you a bikini whilst only just deciding that perhaps gloves and scarves should be given some retail space. Festive tat is creeping onto more and more shelves, including groanworthy tubes of 'Merry Pringles'. It must be just a matter of time before chocolate eggs make their appearance.
I'm not sure when Easter falls next year, but the stork will make his delivery before the Easter Bunny. Remember, won't you, that the clocks go back this Hallowe'en weekend; with all the above swirling around, you'd be forgiven for forgetting what time of year it actually is...
Over the weekend this meant seeing a photograph of some WAG or other, five months pregnant and already looking as if she had a Zeppelin under her jumper. As I glanced down at my own near-flat middle, I didn't know whether to feel smug or envious.
I settled for relief at not being married to a Premier League footballer, most of whom seem to think chastity is a mispronounciation of Chester City and that monogamy is a dark wood.
Coincidentally, two friends both had their weddings on Saturday, neither of which I was able to attend. Which is probably just as well, because the cake wouldn't have stood an ice cube's chance in the Sahara the way my pregnancy cravings and appetite are persisting.
Neither of the ceremonies were in this country, and although invitations and airline tickets to both were received, a busy few days kept both me and The Bump rooted in Brighton, where in the city centre the first Christmas decorations have been strung up across North Street. As, indeed, should be whomever is responsible for them, and not merely because there's still a sixth of the year between now and the tide of Yule.
These seasonal banners straddle the road at regular intervals, and look like threadbare fishing nets with a few token lights attached surrounding a child's drawing of Santa. One can safely say they'd have been better advised spending ten quid in Poundland, or not to have bothered at all.
But as usual, commercial promotions are out of synch with the calendar. George at Asda will still sell you a bikini whilst only just deciding that perhaps gloves and scarves should be given some retail space. Festive tat is creeping onto more and more shelves, including groanworthy tubes of 'Merry Pringles'. It must be just a matter of time before chocolate eggs make their appearance.
I'm not sure when Easter falls next year, but the stork will make his delivery before the Easter Bunny. Remember, won't you, that the clocks go back this Hallowe'en weekend; with all the above swirling around, you'd be forgiven for forgetting what time of year it actually is...
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