All posts by

Adele Jarrett-Kerr

In this flat, we have a bedtime routine that I’m not altogether proud of. If we stay up beyond 11, I’ll almost inevitably go into a funk that doesn’t allow me to go to bed without making a fuss. It goes like this.

Yesterday I proved that my husband is patient enough to put his life and, more impressively, car into my shaky hands simply to encourage me. He yelled, “Brakes!” a couple of times but there were no beads of sweat, whispered prayers or attempts at thinly veiled contempt.

Late nights courtesy London friends left me struggling to get to sleep at a reasonable hour last night. My iPhone was (shock, horror) battery dead so I decided to read a little book Laurence (ahem, Santa) put in my stocking this Christmas. It’s called, “things to do now that you’re a MUM” and is ultra-yummy. It really is a fun book for any new mum to have. That the author Elfrea Lockley is able to round up 600 “nice” things to do as a new mother is somewhat prodigious, I

Yesterday, I drank well over a pint of water, lugged my unhappy bladder into the filthiest taxi I’ve ever sat in and went to the hospital. Two signs on the England-flag-emblazoned glass separating the driver from me warned me that a £75 fine would be due should I soil the vehicle. Honestly, I’m not sure what difference my spit-up, or any other soiling materials for that matter, would have added to the mix. I’d decided to take a taxi because the thought of waddling across Bristol, ready to burst, oddly

I’ve been sickeningly obsessed with  Christmas since July this year. Laurence has been caught somewhere between amusement and horror as I’ve enticed (coerced) him into buying presents from hippie stalls at music festivals and drawing up our Christmas card list. I haven’t always been this way. In fact, it’s characteristic for me to make the mad dash to the shopping centre for entirely unglamorous last minute hunting on Christmas Eve. So I’ve reflected on what makes this one different. Firstly, my parents are coming to England. If this is indeed

Laurence hates that I call our unborn child “the creature”. It apparently sounds like something gooey and mean out of Alien vs. Predator, nothing cuddly, cute or even human. First he suggested “critter” as a reasonable compromise but I inconveniently wouldn’t have it on the basis of it conjuring up the cast of Bambi for me, not at all reflecting the strangeness on my insides. Finally, he gave up and has taken to calling the baby “boo”, wincing whenever I refer to “the creature”. I fully expect my heart to

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