A womb with a view

Sara Sizzle has already told the world on her blog, but... it's a girl! And here she is, enjoying the best days of her life. Quiche has been kicking a lot recently, mixing in the odd karate chop and headbutt. Ah, mummy's girl. I think you can tell from the scan that she's going to be a beauty, can't you? Look at that nose! Those lips!

In other news, I've put my old house on the market. Anyone wanna buy a 3 bedroom semi in the not-posh part of Tunbridge Wells? Yours for £205k. A snip. Buffy and I have decided we want to run away to Cornwall to live in a house by the sea. This might happen... in about 2012. In the meantime, we're stuck in the world's rudest city. I've become increasingly outraged by how f*cking foul people are in London, epsecially on public transport. I bet if you asked a poll of strangers if they would give up their train seat for a 6-months-pregnant woman with a very prominent bump, they'd all say, 'Of course.' But 99% of them would be lying. What actually happens is that after practically shoving Sara onto the tracks in the rush for a seat, the commuters on our line raise their newspapers and try desperately to appear as if they haven't noticed the pregnant belly in front of them. It's shocking. Women are the worst - they never ever offer their seat. Some men do, very occasionally, but usually only after having an internal wrestle with their conscience for five minutes.

It makes my blood boil. I'm going to bring up quiche to have consideration for others. And to kick people who bother her in the balls.

The God of Small Broken Things

I must have done something to anger the god of inanimate objects this week. My shaver broke, leading to a one-man designer stubble revival. The back keeps falling off my new shiny phone. The Netgear wireless router decided it didn't want to be wireless any more. Worst of all, the washing machine broke down. Now, I wouldn't normally count that as a noteworthy occurrence - I mean who wants to read about broken white goods? - but it did lead to an interesting adventure: going to the launderette.

I haven't been to a launderette since I was at uni. In those days, I would wait until I was down to my very last pair of pants before going. (My last pair of pants, which were a Christmas present, possibly from my mum or Auntie Jo, had a picture of Father Christmas on them saying "Santa Says Relax" and were two sizes too small. I never wore them on a first date.)

I would then have to lug the entire contents of my wardrobe through the red-light district of Stoke on Trent, passing smack-addled prostitutes who would try to tempt me to spend the pocketful of twenty pence pieces I'd been collecting over the last week on them, rather than on washing my smalls. In those days, people used to smoke in launderettes, so your clothes would come out of the machine all fresh; by the time you got them into the tumbledryer they'd smell like you'd just come out of Wetherspoons.

So I wasn't looking forward to going to the launderette today, particularly as Buffy had given me three bin-bagfuls of washing, colour coded and bulging. (Rather like those Santa pants. He bragged.) But apart from a brief moment of panic when I thought someone had stolen my whites (he'd actually put them in a basket; nice of him) it wasn't that bad. Okay, there were quite a lot of poor people there, as one would expect, but I didn't see anything too gruesome. And nobody was smoking. In fact, someone helped me unpack my tumble drier, which was heartwarming if a little scary, almost leading me to shout "Get your hands off my towels."

When I got home, Buffy had rearranged all the furniture. It's a pregnant woman thing, I guess, though I'm glad to report that her modd swings have subsided, apart from a now-customary attack of the housework horrors this morning. She's blooming though. Hehe - she hates it when people say that. But it's true.

There are quite a lot of pictures of us on her Flickr page.



Last week I rifled through my record collection to find some vinyl to flog on eBay. I've got tons of indie and goth records from the nineties, including an extensive Sigue Sigue Sputnik collection. It's quite upsetting, though, to post your prized possessions on eBay - in order to buy nappies - only to find that no-one even wants to pay a quid for them!

However, my Cure Disintegration picture disc is currently going for - wait for it - £51. Some bloke in Spain is desperate for it. And there are still a few days to go. It's very exciting.

Is it me, or has Britain felt apocalypic this week? As well as flooding, gales, pestilence and plague, the whole country went Big Brother bonkers after the Jade/Shilpa racism row. Jade has taken the brunt of it - though I don't believe her "career" is over - but the twosome who really made my blood boil were the loathsome bimbette Danielle and young Pat Butcher lookalike, Jo from S Club. The sight of them guffawing like two gargoyle-henchwomen while Jade screamed abuse at Shilpa will haunt me and makes me feel ashamed to feel British. This country is awash with racists and I actually think Channel 4 have done us all a favour by bringing it into the open in such a dramatic way.

Shilpa to win! Here's a massive picture of her for your enjoyment.

Two thousand and oh oh seven. Innit.

Relax! It's alcohol-free beer.

I'm back. Back! BACK!! Yep, my new year resolution is to blog more often and try to keep up with Sara Sizzle. There we are, above, toasting 2007. I was not on alcohol-free beer, I must confess, but Buffy was.

Next year, apparently, she's getting slaughtered. Guess who's babysitting.



Readers of Sara Sizzle will know that our unborn progeny is known as Quiche. I have a weird feeling that this name might actually stick. Quiche Edwards. I think it looks quite good; I can picture it on a book cover. A book about being teased at school and despising your parents.

Quiche is growing and pushing out Buffy's belly. Buffy looks cuter than ever, I reckon. but I have some words of warning to all men out there. Women get very moody when they're pregnant. VERY moody. And I'm sure this doesn't only apply to redheaded yummy-mummies-to-be. Last night, at about seven, she suddenly announced - after lying in bed for two hours quite happily - that if all the housework wasn't done before the start of Celebrity Big Brother, the whole weekend would be ruined, implying with a steely glare that it would be ALL MY FAULT. She then proceeded to list all the things that are wrong with me:

I flap too much. Apparently, when metaphorically 'in a flap' (ie trying to decide what to do to keep the Sizzle happy) I actually flap my hands. I've never been aware that I do this. But the thought of it makes me, well, get in a flap.

I take ages to do anything. For example, it can take me half an hour to wash up or iron a pair of trousers. But that's because I'm meticulous! And daydreamy. I thought these were nice qualities.

I am insensitive, uncaring, horrible, ugly, smelly... oh, all right, she didn't actually say those last two. That would be ridiculous. I can't tell you all the things she said because they're not suitable for family reading.

I can't blame her - or any woman - for being moody when pregnant though. All that sickness, the backache, the need to hug giant five foot long pillows at night. The other icky stuff that would make most men dial 999 and insist on being nursed 24-7 while crying out for their mummies.

I accompanied Buffy to the hospital yesterday while she had a check up at the maternity clinic. A very pleasant way to spend two and a half hours, I can tell you, surrounded by moody pregnant women, their slack-jawed partners and griping infants. Vicky Pollard was there. Not the Vicky Pollard - maybe her sister. She had a two-year-old with her. This two-year-old had more E numbers in her than a Woolworths sweet department. While we were there, Ms Pollard gave her small child two fizzy drinks, three packets of sweets and a Big Mac. Oh, hang on - sorry. The Big Mac belonged to the sour-faced somehow-pregnant 50 year old sitting next to her. Maybe she wasn't 50. Maybe she'd had a hard life. Then there was the girl who, the midwives indiscreetly revealed, is a hypochondriac who visits the ward every day complaining of chest pains. Let's hope she doesn't have a heart attack next week. Maternity clinics are, I'm convinced, designed to put you off having children. They should open a vasectomy clinic next door, so horrified dads-to-be can get snipped while their partners wait and wait and wait. Oh, if only we were rich enough to go private...

I realise that I'm lapsing into cynical-writer mode, which I don't mean to do. I'm actually very very excited about Quiche's arrival. I've become obsessed with two things:

Trying to flog stuff on eBay to raise funds to pay for Quiche's upbringing. (And maybe go private.)

Buggies.

I've simply got to have a cool buggy to push Quiche round in. I spend hours researching them online, and when people walk past with a buggy, I (and Buffy too; she's just as bad) don't peer at the little nipper - I try to see what make the buggy is. I've decided that my preferred item of baby transportation is going to be the Quinny Buzz. Apparently, you just press a button and it unfolds itself. How exciting is that? It looks cool too. Now, we just need to know whether Quiche is a boy or a girl before deciding on hot pink or electric blue.

And speaking of hot pink...



Buffy made some delicious fairy cakes today. You may remember the giant cookie disaster from last August (which was when Quiche was conceived, though I'm sure there's no correlation).

Today's cakes, created while watching the unbelievably camp Grease 2, were much more successfull and yummy. I'm planning on eating them all and growing my very own bump.

Finally (the iBook is heating my lap so worryingly that I have to go) here are some pics of Ellie, now settled happily into the Australian lifestyle. Elle and I videochat on Skype several times a week, which is great. Well, I chat, she throws bricks around. Not housebricks, I hasten to add.





Bye, Roosters. I'm going to see what my lovely girlfriend is up to, apart from being pregnant.

No Roost for the Wicked

Sara Sizzle, who's had a very sexy redesign, has been pestering me to update. I'm actually quite happy just to be a character on her blog; a wisecracking sidekick; the Bob to her Vic. But then I guess both my loyal readers would be disappointed... I'm planning to update properly at the weekend, but here's a very quick list of stuff I've done recently:

Got very excited about the Quiche in the Sizzle oven.

Gazed lovingly at my new video iPod, onto which I have uploaded some classic videos including, er, Tainted Love by Marilyn Manson and, um, Doin' It by LL Cool J. Which, ladies, is my theme tune.

Wandered to Wolverhampton - again - and hurried to Hastings.

Fainted after being given a £160 vet bill for an operation on a very small lump on a very small rat. Muffin - you owe us a LOT of entertainment. Get juggling now.

Stoically endured the full force of Hurricane Sizzle when she's feeling a bit hormonal.

Speculated about who's going to be on Celeb BB. Courtney Love? If only...

Video 'chatted' with my beautiful faraway daughter.

Gazed lovingly at my beautiful far-out girlfriend.

Gazed forlornly at my bank statements.

Drunk for two.

Had the best Christmas ever and a very sober new year, which was, nevertheless, great fun with lashings of curry and Singstar.

And that's just the tip of the iceberg!

2006 was the most bonkers, intense, crazy, emotional, rollercoaster year ever. It was a year of being truly alive. I hope 2007 is a bit calmer - for example, I don't want six different addresses this year - but it will be just as momentous.

Happy New Year, Roosters.