catechism of ouchie
Monday, April 23, 2007
Haven't blogged much lately because I can't think of anything to say except ow ow ow as my rib cage flares upwards and outwards like the gull-wing doors of a De Lorean. This recently necessitated a trip to our local plush purveyors of ladies undergarments to be measured up for the trditional eight months' gestation comedy bra (by which I mean a bra of comedic proportions, not one with rotating attachments or a hooting clown nose, although I suppose these might keep the newborn entertained while we're waiting for my milk to come in. Now there's a marketing opportunity...)
On the subject of pain, I'm to see the anaesthetist on Thursday as apparently there are Options: so long as these don't include biting on a strip of leather we should be cool. A friend has advised me to act a bit stoopid as there is an anaesthetist who, on encountering a woman whose view of medicine isn't informed entirely by reading Woman's Day, gets a wee bit overexcited and tries breathlessly to explain the complete science of anaesthesia from first principles. So, stoopid it is. I can do stoopid. Oh, yes.
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