oy oy oy
Sunday, February 25, 2007
The Klezmer Rebs have just asked me to join them for a gig at the end of next month, as their regular fiddle player has just had a baby. By that time I'll be seven months pregnant, so I've said so long as I can have a chair and a bucket, it should be fine. Worryingly, it turns out I could be doing all the instrumental solos, since the clarinettist, who normally takes them, may not be available: the gig's a fundraiser for the Green Party, and the he's an anarchist (a Swiss anarchist: what's with that? I thought the Swiss liked order) who is not sure that he can reconcile his political principles with taking part in an event supporting party politics. Me, I have no political principles whatsoever: I'll play for anyone who'll give me a cup of tea and a biscuit. Except the Density Party. Or ACT. Or those Christian fundy loonies. Or the Nats. (Labour Party: successfully implement these 20 weekly free hours of childcare for the over-threes, and we'll talk.)
I'm currently entering the sleep deprivation phase of late pregnancy – the one where everyone grins and says aha, that's to prepare you for all the sleepless nights to come, chortle chortle. Bastards, and in any case, having already survived the twilight zone of dealing with one neonate should surely entitle me to some sort of exemption? but, no, it's all restless legs and reflux and general uneasy wakefulness, combined with leg cramps that strike in the wee small hours, making me go GNNNNNNNHHHH!!! into my pillow while kicking Jack awake for an emergency massage. And once I get really big, we can factor in having to cantilever the bump into a sustainable position with the aid of half a dozen foam rubber devices to make unconsciousness feasible. Fasten your seatbelts, we're in for a bumpy three months. So to speak.
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