Tell me I don’t have to start folding the laundry

We’re packing up the flat to move into our first house this weekend and I’m coming face to face with my usual lack of organisation. One suitcase has books, shoes, a mini djembe drum, a hot water bottle, hangers and a game of chess. My mother would look at this, amused, and wonder what these things have in common. They’re all stuff that was living room at the time, Mum. I’m sorry, you did try.

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Me, a pick up artist?

Then the moment of truth comes, will I initiate the exchange of numbers? She’s got no reason to initiate it. She’s settled in her life, her social group. So it’s up to me to make that move. And more often than not, I don’t. I just hope we’ll bump into each other again.

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Hello, masses, here’s my pregnant body

Actually, I didn’t start interrogating my body again until pregnancy began to make itself apparent. I felt frumpy. But I didn’t talk about it because I didn’t want to appear shallow or ungrateful for the baby.

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Feast, famine or funny food

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.

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Driving’s for losers

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.

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My cupboard is fully stocked…

with pinches of salt for the coming year. Mompetition hits it again. Sign up for my monthly newsletter to keep up to date with Beautiful…

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Mum-thing to do: confuse religion with ethnicity

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…

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