Results and relief

Dear Diary,


Well, that's it. It's over and done with. The good news is, I'm not up the stick. The bad news...... well, there is none. Although I kind of, a little bit, sort of, really really REALLY wish I hadn't laid all that on Joe the other night - instead of keeping schtum one more frigging day and therefore avoiding the whole "Dreaded Talk."


The game of "Spoilt little Rich Couple" went marvellously, by the way. The flat was stunning, "cosy" (ie: small) but very posh, with it's own balcony, 2 bedrooms and bathrooms, and a TARDIS-like kitchen. With the rest, lifts, foyers, marble floors, the works. Despite the classy boots I'd donned hobbling me to the point of agony, played it for all it was worth, telling the agent about how we were "freelance interpreters" who'd just be "employed by the city council" and looking to "settle down" after living in Stockport for a while. I'll say this for Joe - he sure can sound convincing. It felt amazing to be acting again. Felt a slight tinge of annoyance at not actually being able to afford said dream palace, but after all - I knew that going in, and at £300,000 ASKING PRICE, I wouldn't have gone for it anyway. (This is the part of the blog where you realise I'm totally full of shit. Who WOULDN'T live in a place like that if they could afford it??!)


Thankfully, during a little downtown brunch in which we both carefully skated around the "situation" but never talked about it - I was ambushed. Joe was diplomatic enough not to look too relieved as I came back from the loo, but I could tell we were both feeling it in waves. On one hand, it's good to know we're both on the same page, are mature enough to discuss it like adults and rely on each other for support. On the other hand, all I could think as we walked back to the car were two things:


a) "You stupid stupid BITCH!!!! Why did you TELL him instead of waiting one more day and taking a test??!!"
b) "Until I go to Costco and buy a YEAR'S supply of condoms, we are never having sex again"


And at the risk of sounding like the worst sort of cliche, I will admit that, for a while, I had sort of become accoustomed to the idea. Telling the news to excited friends and family. Getting to act like a total diva for 9 months. People doing things for you, and having an excuse to weigh more than usual. Shaun as an Uncle, Mum and Dad as Grandparents. A proud-looking Joe, his mates slapping him on the back, and a tiny pink little baby with his ginger hair, my curls, his blue eyes with the green around the pupil, his logical sensibility, and my imagination.


And then I thought about the life I'd have to plan, the money to support this, the restriction in work, the lack of sex life, the altered vagina, the leaking breasts, Mum's furious reaction, the agonising delivery, all the things that could possibly go wrong, not being able to drink wine or eat ANY KIND OF SHELLFISH for 9 months, the sleepless nights, the added baby weight to shift, the exhaustion, the fact that I'm still living with my parents - all on top of the fact that I'm only 23 and haven't even got a proper job yet.


And thanked God all the way home for the result I got. Because I'm not at all ready, really. Not yet.


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