…Should not be called morning sickness. It should be called all-day, all-night, lurking-in-the-back-of-your-throat-and-the-pocket-of- your-cheek-sickness.
Today, in about three hours, I have an interview lined up with a film actress. It’s in one of those swanky west London hotels. The kind of piece that, if I was feeling exceptionally lazy, would start with how she’s wearing no make up and is effortlessly beautiful, casually dressed, only running a few minutes late and apologising profusely for it (blahblahblah).
Not that I normally start my pieces like that. Ordinarily, I’m very enthusiastic about my job and also highly original in my intros. But not today. Because I spent all of last night having nausea-inducing thoughts about beetroot (even just typing the word; oh, please), among other things, and excusing myself for burping like a drunkard (and I don’t even drink even when I’m not pregnant) to my poor husband in between running to the loo and clutching my hair back over the toilet willing for it to just all come out and leave me be.*
I may have three hours to go but it’s taken me like two hours just to pull myself out of bed. I’ve managed a shower, but here I am in my dressing robe. The thought of getting changed… the thought of leaving the house… the thought of just about ANYTHING other than lemonade is making me sick.
On the upside, at least I know that the apple pip inside is fine and dandy doing its thing by making me feel thus. Right? Oh and yeah! Before I forget: happy Valentine’s.
*You may think I’m being disgusting, but these things need to be said.