I smell of milk.

In any other circumstance this would be a worrying development necessitating a shower. In these circumstances, however, I like it very much indeed.

In the garden store:

Him (hoisting shovel): Hey! We could add this to our arsenary.
Me: Um - arsenary?
Him: Oh, you know… er…
Me: Arsenal? Armoury?
Him: Oh. Armoury.
Me: Hee hee hee hee hee.
Him: I guess I just made an arsenary of myself.

****

(After sudden thought that one should check that ‘arsenary’ is not in fact not a Himism at all.)

Me: Okay, I’ve checked now and ‘arsenary’ isn’t in the OED.
Him: Who said it was in the OED.
Me: What then? Your mental dictionary?
Him: It’s in the appendium.
Me: Appendium?
Him: …
Me: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Good karma swop:

Me: Arrrggghhh my thighs look like tree trunks!
Him: Stop bigging up your twigs.

*****

Him: What kind of road closure is this??
Me: The kind where you can’t get through.

I often feel like I have an enormous amount to write about, and then I come to try and put words to screen, and realise that so much of it is so mundane, like a joke you have to explain, so much self-obsession, or much more well-written about by somebody else.

Anyway, I’ve decided that this is not one of those times, so I’ll tell you about how at nearly week 39 of pregnancy I have put on nearly a third of my pre-pregnancy weight, which is particularly noticeable when trying to roll into and out of bed (though I must pride myself on my latest achievement of actually being able to get elegantly in and out of our RAV4). However, 12 kilos, give or take a couple, seems to be about the standard weight gain I’ve been quoted both anecdotally and in books, and also everyone from the cashier at the supermarket (oh look, I nearly typed spermarket, badum tish) and the local organic store to random passers-by keeps telling me that I’m ‘all bump’ which is codespeak for ‘you haven’t morphed into a beached whale’. Hurrah! Right before starting to look a little worried just in case they’re going to be called upon as an impromptu midwife within the next ten seconds.

Although it’s really anyone’s guess as to whether the little one arrives tomorrow or in two weeks, he’s nearly fully engaged and I’ve been falling prey to all manner of things typifying looming labour, so I think we’re on the home stretch now! So the bags are packed, the bathroom is gleaming, I got inordinate pleasure out of a snazzy new iron after our ten-year old one finally conked out at the weekend, and I’ve been whizzing my way through baby books galore. I think I’ve figured out which way is up and how not to drop the baby, and we’ll leave the rest up to the grace of God.

Off to clean the cloakroom now.