Rats' nest

Buffy's third trimester nesting instinct has kicked in. With a vengeance. "You're so messy," she complained while staring at a mountain of her clothes piled up at the end of the bed.

She then proceeded to spend all of Saturday dusting, rearranging stuff, buying some rather cute pink and purple shelves to store her collection of belts (you can never have too many belts), and shouting at the rats. I can't say I blame her: she had discovered holes in two of the only items of clothes that still fit over her bump. She looks lovely even though she's utterly fed up with being pregnant.

It's hard to believe that it's 29 weeks since... well, since Quiche was conceived. (We think it happened on our company sports day.) Our flat is filling up with nappies and nipple cream, baby baths and bouncers. Quiche now has more space in our chest of drawers than I'm allowed. I feel like this is the calm before Hurricane Baby hits. There was a three-year-old on the train today screaming over and over "I want my do-do." I hope Quiche doesn't ever want a do-do.

Here's a picture of another baby, Ellie, on her swing:



Last night I went with Mimo to see my friend Andrew Wallace at the Chuckle Club, a comedy night at the LSE. Andrew is starting on what to me is a terrifying journey: trying to make it as a stand-up. He's very funny, but he was on first so I missed the first five minutes, which was annoying. One of the other comedians was a very scary Canadian called Jason Rouse, who pushes the boundaries of taste so far that just watching him makes you feel unclean. He'll never be on telly. Mimo and I sat in the second row, which was dangerous, but fortunately only the people at the front got picked on by the comics. The fear of being picked out of the crowd usually deters me from going to comedy nights. This fear possibly stems from the time when I was at college and was picked out of the crowd and forced to put a condom on a banana. Or was it a cucumber?

I haven't recommended any books on here lately, so here's one: Taming the Beast by Emily Maguire. When Sarah is 14, she starts a sexual relationship with her English teacher, Mr Carr, a relationship that mixes literary study with lashings of violence: S & M - Shakespeare and Marlowe. Then his wife finds out and he leaves town. Fast forward a few years and Sarah is wildly promiscuous, sleeping with everyone - and I mean everyone, from her best friend to another friend's boyfriend, plus a neverending parade of dangerous strangers. She's searching for the feeling she had with Mr Carr. Redemption appears to be on the horizon in the form of Jamie, who loves her and wants to save her. But then the novel takes an unexpected twist and things get really twisted.

It's a brilliant novel because the author never pulls back or flinches away from extremes. It left me feeling quite dizzy, and now I want to get everyone to read it. If I read a better book this year I'll be shocked.