Alba Elise

There is nothing but the hum of the cars driving down the hill outside our flat and the soft breathing of my baby girl strapped to me in a fabric sling. Little mouth open, one arm up and fist slightly clenched.

At 3.50am on September 30th, Alba Elise came into our world and made everything brighter, shinier, more fun, exciting and full of a new and wonderful kindness and love. Oh the love for our family of three. In the 22 days that we have known her, our love for this little girl of ours as each day's sun rises has somehow grown and blossomed even more than I thought possible. 

Iiiiit's harvest time!

We watched a documentary on food in America. I was lured in by Jeff Bridges but enamoured with the details within this programme. Over 50 million hungry Americans. An abundance of desert areas - places where you can't buy fruit or vegetables without getting on two buses. The fact that since the 80s, fruit and vegetable prices have soared 40% in price, whereas the high calorie aka junk food, has decreased in price by the same equivalent. Obesity and hunger walk side by side and are far more interlinked than you might expect. The fact is, fruit and vegetables are costly - they are not subsidised, small farms don't bring the advantages to the Government that the large global companies do. Money. Greed.

Ironically, in the 70s hunger was nearly eliminated in America - then CORN happened (thanks to Nixon and Earl Butz, an academic). Enormous and addictively 'good' chips, burgers, fries and pop thanks to astonishingly large corn crops, invested in by the Government. For America, corn meant money, money, money. Then high fructose corn syrup was added to the mix and pumped into every food, from pizzas, to coleslaw and meat. HFCS provides that 'just baked' sheen we see as so American, sweetening everything and extending its shelf life to years. Now all that cheap bad food has made people fat, unhealthy and hungry. The cost of greed.. 50 million people. I know, I've said it before and I'll say it again, FIFTY million people.

For such a 'powerful', 'influential' and 'developed' country, how can this figure be so high? Cuts. Greed. Cuts. Greed. Funding for food (stamps and schools) is down, as is the price of trashy food - down. Feed your people trash by not providing enough money for them to buy healthily - and let's not forget the interest the Government has in the sugar world - have more money in the piggy bank. 'The problem is not food shortage, but poverty,' says the doc. People with morals - why would you feed people trash and make them sick? Why would you feed kids for $1 a day at school and subsequently feed them orange, chemically filled food that gives them poor concentration and a terrible attitude to nutrition that will stay with them forever, possibly causing health problems in their future which will not be helped by a lack of insurance to pay for their required healthcare - because their development may have been hindered in class (studies have proven the importance of nutrition in early life for physical and mental development) and insurance is expensive? Where is the CARE? How can such a country be in this position?

On a personal note, it makes me feel very lucky to be in a position to buy the nutritional food we need to be healthy. However, I know that we live in a bubble. I know that many families are unable to get by and struggle to buy food, relying on food banks. The cost of living is so enormous, wages have frozen and it must be impossible to prioritise the necessities. We, as a couple, complain that we are unable to save very much, that we coast along because our rent is enormous, as are our bills - of course we will have less when the baby is here - but we can afford good food. We will teach the kid all about nutrition and looking after yourself. To enjoy the beauty of good food.

It makes me really sad that so many Americans are not able to do this - as well as those in the UK. Food is so basic, we should be able to provide it - as a country. We have a surplus of it! It's so essential. Just imagine going to school and trying to concentrate as a child with a growling belly, then coming home to only junk food for tea. Awful, tiring and miserable. Even not having breakfast sets me back, it's imperative to a productive day, while living off sugar can only ultimately get you down.

I'm not sure what to do, the situation we all know so well - it surrounds us (vending machines and corner shops filled with confectionary, deals on sweet everything). But I know that healthy food should not be a luxury and if we can make little steps here, growing food in our gardens for example and delivering the extra produce to food banks - that's moving in a good direction. As is educating people on nutrition so they can shun the trash. There are ways to solve this, surely?

Sugar giants and the greedy Governments though, are another story.

Pic

should

a family getting it right

I'm still here, waiting for this baby to decide now is the time. It almost seems not real now, the past 12 days have been so incredibly long. The good news is that I have banned Dr Google from my life, he has been culled. Since he suggested that it's because I have unresolved issues that my baby is not coming remotely on time. Who would say a thing like that? Am I supposed to smash in some therapy for these issues and old cervix, old chap, will open up like a flower? Not my analogy. I think not. I have already had a massage and acupuncture (therapy) and he tiger will tell you I'm not one to keep my issues in. And don't we all have issues anyway?

Are you 'supposed' to not only be married, with a purchased home, cash in the bank, a sizeable car and a Stocke pushchair - drowning in Weleda (actually very nice) - but you're also to have all issues unresolved in your life so help you, you are now perfect? Well, we have none of these things. NONE. Does this supposed cavern of emptiness in our lives mean that I have to wait for my baby to arrive? That I will not be the perfect parent? Well, the latter - yes, I know I will not be the perfect parent. But regardless of on time baby, what a frikkin ridiculous world pushing material, financial and psychological 'assets' upon us all. the. time.

However, I CAN see that being relaxed is a good thing. (I AM!)

I will try my best and I will teach the kid everything I can and hope to inspire it to be an adventurer, an explorer, ambitious and a person that doesn't worry about 'should' and want as a prerequisite for happiness.

Simple is good. We are lucky. We are alive. Google is not alive.

Tomorrow I will be talking about nutrition.

the details

Book circa 2004 - Classy.

I used to keep tat safe. I really did. A pebble? Yes, thanks. An old sparkler from that time we twirled sparklers on the roof with the sea as our background? Go on then. How about an empty sweet packet from the 247 shop purchased while travelling? Yes, please I was pretty much addicted to them. And an autograph from that surfer, Taj? Err, yeh! That cute email? Definitely.

Let's keep it in a notebook that has swelled to such a degree due to its glued in contents, it's exploding, shall we? And a box. A memory box is a good idea. Sellotape round it to secure it and reinforce it, that's right. It's nice to keep these things, isn't it? All the senses triggered through the words and images gaffer taped together.

I consider writing an extension of this, that's why I write a blog. So why do I prefer only people I don't really know so well to be reading this? I guess I have always been pretty private in lots of ways. But depending on who. I know that I love to have those conversations, when you launch straight in with the non-chit chat. Let's get the wine and crank up Bill C. That's what I thought was brilliant about travel - the ones that don't ask what/where/when to brand you up, but swoop in for the jugular. That's the way. I guess this blog is like my mini launching in for the jugular. Not that I write everything here, but it's the bit of me that's always been whimsical. The bit that is private and was my escape growing up and still now.

So essentially, perhaps I should write this in a notebook instead of on the world wide web. Letting this part of myself be open to all doesn't work, but then it's strange that through my writing you can find my - I guess, true self and that frankly, I don't want everyone to know/have/see this. Not just writing about myself (you cackle), but the way I see things. Whether it's on a boat in Thailand (nice holiday), or the way that it's difficult to be crafty in a craft world. Being obsessed with the sea. It's kind of sacred, like the sparkler and the pebble. Blogs are just really odd creations. Though I like the F.R.I.E.N.D.S set up, I guess all this is why I also consider myself a 'frequent flyer'  - ooph, let's just peruse some flights to Cali. Let's go somewhere where no one knows your name.

Regarding the tat - truth be told, I still keep tat. But less so now. It's all in the details though, right? I like to remember the details.

limbo

Well there's nothing like waiting around. As much as I assumed the baby would probably be overdue, I thought walking up and down city dale, would instigate a slightly on time baby. Not a very late baby, as is the sitch - where's your watch, rabbit?

I've just come back from the hospital for some monitoring and delightful procedures. The baby fell asleep as I lay on the light blue reclining bed with monitors strapped all over the bump - the laziness of this baby.  So as I lay there, listening to the process of induction I slowly destroyed a melting Snickers bar to encourage lazy to wake up. 'He' likes Snickers turns out and thumped me hard when the chocolate hit the belly, heart rate soaring with excitement.

A couple came in with the same long passed due date as us. She was having contractions however, thick and fast. As I relaxed, polishing off my Snickers, I said to the baby I want that right there. You need your birthday, kid. Turned out with the arrival and general activity, 30 minutes of baby monitoring went quite fast. I didn't need the Hello! magazine he had delivered to me from the waiting room.

The whole process of being overdue is not that great. Most of the time, I've been OK, but sometimes it's enormously emotional. Wondering, waiting, walking... constantly replying to people asking if the baby has arrived yet. 'Ah, I thought your due date was...' Reply: 'It doesn't work like that, I will tell you when it's here. Smiley happy face.' *Read: RAGHH*. It's lovely that people care, but irrationality is a beast and it's hard not to feel like an anti-climax, like you're failing in some way. Disclaimer: I KNOW this is ridiculous.

With those who are still pregnant, I have tried to be upbeat as much as possible. 'Overdue isn't too bad, just going with the flow, it's all good.' I've just eaten four pineapples, drank two litres of raspberry leaf tea, walked five miles, bounced on my birth ball for the duration of Mad Men series six, had some uncomfortable time with the midwife and soon I am about to get punctured by mini needles in an acupuncture session.

Oh! I said, irrationality and overly emotional is part of this! But actually, it's not bad - I'm filling my days with nice things too, lots of baking, walking in the autumn sunshine, drinking tea, sitting in coffee shops, watching films, reading... the only less favourable/DOMINATING bit is being in limbo. Breathe and relax.

baby style

The idea of dressing the baby is something that makes me happy. Babies are cute, right? Especially in snowsuits – it hasn't gone unnoticed that the baby will be a winter baby and thus suitable for knitwear and sheepskin garms. Although he and I are summer lovers, knitwear has to be acknowledged as one of the best things created for you and I - and baby - to wear. 

I especially love Tootsa Macginty's knitwear collection and was lucky enough to receive their little aran knit for the baby at my baby shower. It's frankly, amazing. I also love this little knit, above. (No, I can't stop saying little). I would quite like to list all the (many) independent designers I would like to purchase from, but I will save that for now. They are too tempting as I wait for the baby diva to arrive.

In terms of gender specific outfits, obviously it could be a boy or a girl and more to the point I prefer the neutral and so have gone for plain sleepsuits with cute sheepskin booties. That's not to say that I won't (probably will) dress the bebe a bit like he or I when we find out. It's our 'style', right? Just. Can't. Help. It. One thing's for sure, lots of knitwear, dungarees and mini plaid - regardless of girl/boy - this kid's going to be an explorer!

If it's a girl... this! (Karen Walker sunnies, though maybe not the actual KW's) Of course, they will love this.

Wrote this at five weeks

Log 1: Waiting
I thought I would publish this. I wrote it when it was thundering down with snow in January and I was just five weeks pregnant. I could tell no one, it was the best secret in the world. I'd known for barely over a week. Now here I am at nine months, a spring and a summer passed. 

I’m sitting here and I’ve nearly eaten the whole of my snack before writing a single word. Cucumber and humous. I’m trying, with a glint in the eye and a gently charging horse, to fill my body with goodness. As well as the copious chocolate, cravings for biscuits and cakes, there must be balance. This consciousness, has in turn led to some form of mild paranoia. I am concerned that I just bleached the bath and then had a bath. I can’t remember how thoroughly I rinsed the damn bath before I jumped in it. Who does that? I have also had to change the cat litter because he is on his home island, having sailed there in a 20 hour ordeal. I’m not supposed to do this. The only person I can ask is Dr *fear into your bones* Google, with his overzealous search engine of doom.

Do I sound annoyed? I’m not. In fact, I think I am probably happier than I have ever been.

I’ve had a weekend of thorough relaxation. I mean this in the way that I have done absolutely nothing. I am of course, blaming the snow dropping heavily and rendering the pavements unpassable. It’s like some kind of Western film out there. The way everyone is walking with caution, knees bent, legs apart. Apart from maybe friendlier, as unusual events make a person speak to their neighbour.

I chose to spend this weekend alone. I am possibly the biggest fan of alone time. I need the space to grasp my spirit again. I mean that quite literally too. Time alone, thinking of everything, then nothing, putting everything in its place, then thinking of the present and what I have and what utter thrills the future could bring. It’s like a magical feeling that spins around in my belly for a while, before releasing in a big joyful explosion. And even if I begin this time within melancholy’s grasp, the outcome after solitary time is always this life shuddering great big wink from my internal spirit, chugging away in there. And I thank it, because it’s what makes me who I am and I’ve learnt it’s probably a lot easier to like myself than not.

So, the reason why I am being a wannabe health freak and am ardently reading certain blogs, weeping into my iPad’s screen. Baby. That’s correct, a real life baby is sitting in my tummy and listening to the music I am playing, hearing me chat inanely to my cats and eating all that Cadbury’s with me. And cucumber of course. Here we both are, waiting patiently for the next seven weeks to pass by asquicklyasispossible.

I know, C knows, one of my friends accidentally guessed - girl can read my eyes, but no one else knows. Oh and two of the Drs know, because last week I had a scare. Awful. Another reason why I need the next seven weeks to go by fast. And I shouldn’t sit in bleach. I guess when the scare happened, I started to see this baby as a baby. My baby. Our baby.  Baby. Oops, meets overwhelming elation, meets fear, meets vomit.

In terms of being pregnant, symptoms include:-

-  Twinges in the baby area, guess my womb is rearranging the furniture for the long term, full time guest.

-  Sitting having a brooding chai tea latte today, I had the sudden feeling that I am going to vomit when an all in black faux glasses vixen next to me got delivered poached eggs. The horror.

-  Having to turn music down to be able to smell and see as whole heartedly as I believe I can, with my new sense superpowers.

-  Becoming thoroughly obsessed with TV shows I used to think were utter crap... and normally snivelling my way through the ‘acts of kindness’.

-  I literally want chocolate all the time, with no moments not desiring its ‘goodness’ (unless there are eggs around... even then, at a push I could).

-  FATTENING up. I am sure I am already.

-  Weird looking at all food (apart from chocolate) like it’s the most vile thing. Even at the silly little fancy looking Waitrose mini lunches I used to adore. I normally have to wait until 2pm and then I could devour an entire chocolate factory fruit and veg store.

-  Worry. I now worry more than I thought possible. I am worried and am trying to stop worrying. I am sending this baby... It's the 12 weeks thing.

-  Beautiful vibes.

When I found out:

He had just confirmed a new job and we’d booked a meal out a while ago, after receiving a voucher from a good friend for our birthdays. I’d taken a quick test before he had come home and saw nothing so (weirdly) popped it in a bag and forgot about it. Just about to get ready, mid gin, I looked at the stick again. Two lines. “Errr” - you can imagine the rest. Another test. Then another test, digital this time - expensive, but needed to see the actual word. It was confirmed. I was in shock, could barely eat a thing. Ecstatic little jumps from the spirit and me. So very excited.

Pic

shake 'n shack

Oh my goodness, when you go to America you get some seriously top rate bad/good foods. I like how there is no class divide when it comes to the stuff everyone sort of, definitely wants in the US. In NYC, you'll find all varieties of cafe rammed with everyone and your neighbour's cat. Pish to the over the top pretentiousness that can permeate every chopping serving board, sometimes it's all about getting down with the thick shakes and the burgers and fries. 

I do not care sometimes about my *ahem veg box principles and I have to embrace. And in NYC, you can still get happy meat in your burger and organic gherkins and things, just as per usual. Same as the UK, no? Basically, this is a round about way of stating that they have SHAKE SHAKE and everything in SHAKE SHACK is efficient and clean and frikkin delicious. Everyone pops along there, whether for a lunch stop, or strolling home through the bright lights and awe-inspiring vertical builds at night. 

I am desperate for a SHAKE SHACK right now. The kid clearly likes this food, it is very demanding of me and has put in a very precise request. I know there is one in Covent Garden now (JOY) and I would genuinely get on a train and go fetch one right now if I wasn't carrying a bowling ball and small knives in my back. 

I will console myself with cleaning. But I really want to dip chips in a concrete custard shake.

That's who I am right now!

Please use black ink to fill in the boxes

Photograph by Norman Parkinson - a creative photographing a creative

I've been thinking about creativity as a commodity. I think that everyone has creativity in them, but it can so easily be quashed with the pressures of conformity and the 'right' and 'wrong's setting us straight. But surely, straight is everything that we should be avoiding to be creative? Is something that has been churned out a million times before - I'm not talking about an inspiration, I'm talking about a structure, a thought process, a new way of seeing something - really enough the set the goosebumps on fire and the stomach churning with the elation of creating something new.

Children hold exactly that when they go about their creating. God, I used to absolutely love making things when I was a kid. When asked what I wanted to do day to day, my answer would always, always be 'make something'. I wanted to use my imagination to look and learn about something and then put my mark on it. My own little take. And boy did my heart and mind soar when I was creating. I had absolutely no fear at six years old, no fear of being wrong. Of people furrowing their brow or questioning my motives behind my creations. Either alone in my own little world or with friends or family, I'd make cakes, patterns, dens, go-carts, models, sheer off Barbie's hair and sew her culottes and a waistcoat, read books and eat peas in the field next door, ride my bike to Texas (because the fields looked like I thought Texas might), wrote to my pen pal, made up dances, sang and wrote and bound mini books and letters.

I am positive that allowing for and nurturing a style, being creative and enjoying creativity, allows for all round personal development. A confidence that makes the passing of exam papers seem more than inadequate for predicting, or at least aiding, our career choices. We are boxed from a young age and education seems to be heading for more boxing starting younger and younger. I remember my SATs when I was at Primary School. I could feel the pressure, but I wasn't interested in these tests, I wanted to write stories and understand the world. I had no idea how to revise. I remember that I didn't do as well as expected. I was bright, I should have done better. With the results, I had a feeling that I was not intelligent, not clever, not able. But yet I finished tasks ahead of time, enjoyed them and was a diligent student. So, why the disappointing test results? The D word. 'You're creative, darling'.

I feel like I've never shaken this sense overhanging me, that I don't fit the boxes correctly and I should do if I want to succeed. I'll never have success, a longed for house and a feeling that yes, I am clever. But this is total bull. What the hell? I make things everyday. I've achieved great things and I'm going to tell my kid that they are creative AND intelligent, as we take every day as an adventure. Not even necessarily out and about, but just hanging out - creating stories, designing things and having fun with science, geography, literature and maths.

But, as far as creativity as a commodity, this annoys me. While you can try and deliver your enthusiasm and understanding of something, you can't capture creativity or copy it and it's sad when your own style of creativity just isn't in vogue, so it's negated. Look how many people are 'suddenly creative' thanks to the make, do and mend revolution. Where did that come from? Was it hiding in the ready meals of the 90s? What about growing vegetables? That's pretty creative and teaches you about maths and science - why did the grannies and grandpas do this, but mum and dad didn't? Not to mention the entrepreneurs, incredibly creative. Where did this business come from? Eh?

Is it because everyone's massively fed up with the Government, the boom is over, bringing with it wild financial issues, dissatisfaction... lack? To simplify. With this change and new creativity out to be purchased on the shelves, there's a different need for individuality, not just owning something coveted, but maybe putting our mark on it too. Or finding something somewhere you'd never expect. Granny's attic has never looked so good. We were in danger of becoming homogenous before weren't we? Are we now? Or are we just looking for and pining for originality to fill our Instagram feed?

My argument is, all this creativity, pumping through us has always been there. We are humans, who can learn more than box ticking skills. The aforementioned creative boom should go way beyond a trend. These gardening, cooking, discovering and building skills are skills for life, skills to hold and cherish, with a value that surely rivals a 90% pass in another exam. Arguably, the exam results can set you up for life and get you 'where you want to be', but equally what if you don't know and you find yourself excelling at something you have only tried once? What about dance, theatre, carpentry and horticulture? Or even just knowing that there's something beyond law, medicine, English and engineering? More beyond the boxes. If you want to Make It, it's really not about competing with someone else's life. Or even your own.

My absolutely main point is that the tight and tested curriculum needs to be changed in schools. Kids need to know more about nutrition, understanding their neighbours, politics that's relevant to them NOW, law, businesses and trade (local and global) and there should be time set aside for own projects. Where a student can pursue an understanding of a path that they may want to try out, perhaps they could meet some interesting people, expand their horizons and do something that allows their hearts and minds to flourish. Outside of that home/school/social bubble, it's time for them. Surely through just having a meander outside of these oh so importnat boxes and being allowed to expel some energy and be guided in doing so, the kids will benefit. All 'types' of kid. There's so much more to life than fitting neatly into a money churning world.

so he did...

Last time I was on here, I was desperate for someone to cry, 'Halt! You may stop what you are doing, sit back, stop that whirring mind and rest. I'd just climbed an enormous hill after getting stuck in 30 degree heat right in the middle of town. Tiger man had called mid hill and I essentially just bawled down the phone to him. I was hungry, exhausted and emotional.

'Pack your bags,' he said. We're going away for the night. See you at 6pm. Be ready!'

Just a few hours after the hill of pain, I was sitting outside a quintessentially English pub, hills surrounding, light stone buildings solid with history, a tiny glass of (good) red wine, morris dancers dancing a jingly little fandango before me and lavender scenting the air.

The next morning I awoke at 7am and had the longest soak in the deepest bath before anyone had stirred. I breathed deeply. I did some thinking. And then I just stopped. Stopped all the worry, the anguish and teeny tiny flinches of stress building up and weighing me down.

One night felt like weeks.

Stop!...In the name of love

I really like this image and feel it's showing what I feel. By Sara K Byrne. She is very talented.

This week has been tough. Mainly because I have felt so incredibly emotional. It's ridiculous, I have never felt such a jumble of ups and downs, confusion and upset. Mixed with utter contentedness and happiness. I cling on to the latter. I know this is all probably normal, but I'm also trying to please a million people, tick off a million things and I'm just so tired. I want to know when someone can say, it's OK. You can stop now.

Slick

I think this oil is splendid. It's soft, not over the top, the scent is as calming as an enormous armchair for the mind and it helps to keep skin stretchy. Or as stretchy as it can be when there is a bowling ball inside of you. It's a treat, and a necessary one. I have used it throughout this pregnancy and am now a converted 'oil fan'.

Trimester one (in the moment)

So now I know that you are definitely real. I know this because of two reasons. The first is that because of my ‘scare’ at five weeks, I got to visit the early pregnancy clinic.

I think I will remember this forever. Charlie and I sat in the waiting room with the lights out. We stared at the non-identifiable blobs framed and mounted on the walls. It was before 9am, so the clinic wasn’t open. We had got there early as the doctor had told me it was a good idea to the day before. He was right. At 9.05am the waiting room was filled with a mixture of tightly wound faces, wringing hands, expressionless static behaviour and men popping off to the toilet. Not to mention those reading the enormous comments board, the aged toys wishing for Toy Story and the muttering midwives. I spent almost the entire time waiting thinking about my impending interview with a Springwatch presenter.

It didn’t take long to see the midwife and sonographer. A slather of gel, a quick shock and then there it was. Admittedly it was a blob. But it was also a vision of relief, elation and wonder. The blob was not unlike those paintings, but after pointing out the heartbeat, I realised it was my little blob. It had a heart, it was OK. It was real. Despite taking three pregnancy tests, I genuinely couldn’t believe what I saw. I resolved to try and not call it, ‘it’. It’s a baby. A baby. I interviewed the Springwatch presenter with my usual celeb-dazzle of butterflies, fluttering. Exaggerated, I am positive.

Good god, morning sickness. This is the other reason that has indicated in MASSIVE FLASHING LIGHTS, that I am pregnant. Though I love the kid, this is truly vile. Mixed with the exhaustion, you could push me with a feather and I’d fall down. The first week the sickness surfaced itself it hit me like a thousand rhinos. I was in Cornwall. Taking five of my 24 glorious holiday days. Suffice to say I spent a lot of it lying in bed catching up with Silent Witness, a programme I have never loved, but I’m fast learning that it’s all about The Series. I was recently given the boxset of The Killing series one and I could have wept at the feet of the gifter. During the week, I also walked along the beaches, meandered about and ate carbs. I told the kid it needs to like the sea, as its (might call it K-it aka Kit, for now I think – KIT’S) father is obsessed.

I’m touching wood as I type, but recently the morning sickness has been slightly less horrific. Perhaps it’s because I am back at work and busy. Plus I am never (TOUCH WOOD) actually sick, which helps. I just feel like gagging at the merest thought of eggs and jumping in an extraordinarily clean, white duvet is appealing at all times. Charlie has been frankly hilarious throughout Kit’s existence so far. I say hilarious, because otherwise I would batter him with cake. Par example: “Just think, every person that exists has had a mum that has probably been really sick, just like you. It’s life!”

Find out if the famous second trimester ‘glow’ is ignited next time. If not, I have iridescent creams and powders at the ready so I can look like Tinkerbell… at least. 

Seasonal, baby

I have no objection to this gold Burberry baby snowsuit. When you are young, you can get away with it.

Yesterday I was sat cross-legged on a mat in a hall. I was there for my - much-loved - pregnancy yoga class and after too many hours sat on an uncomfortable chair by a desk at home, I was prepared for my vertebrae to be tweaked one by one, limbs stretched and mind relaxed. As a draft whistled under the door and through the room, curling up one side of a piece of paper, to use a cliche: it hit me.

Just a few weeks ago we were all sweltering in the balmy heat, rubbing our aching, swollen feet and celebrating the ferocious air con. And at the very beginning, when I started pregnancy yoga, it was utterly freezing. My fingers were blue from the winter's chill and I was layered with jumpers and a thick blanket during the relaxation exercises. Now it feels like it's getting a little bit autumnal. Not really (obviously), but the nights are starting to draw in a tad and after we had that blast of summer in July, mid-August seems... like its getting ready, preparing for colder times.

Now, I for one absolutely love autumn, for a whole variety of reasons. It's birthday season for myself and the man tiger, I adore autumn wear, LOVE it. Boots, new coats and knitwear. Glorious. The skies are pretty and red (sometimes), nature is golden and red ('tis), new starts can occur, berry liquors and apples scent the air and the summer sun is still warm on the skin.

But. That means I have gone through winter, spring and now nearly summer/autumn crossover. That's a whole year nearly, being pregnant. I know this makes sense, as nine months is nearly a year and I am nearly at nine months, so this... makes. sense. However, it feels surreal. A whole year has nearly passed, a year that I am conscious about, as I have felt every week - and yet it's whistled by and will soon be gone, like a wave washing in and then retreating. It feels like yesterday that we were in Cornwall, wrapped up against the January freeze, the morning sickness first hitting me like a rocket to my whole being. Lying on the sofa, unable to move, looking at food (apart from carbs) like it was alien fuel. Staring out to the sea. Still unsure that it was real.

Now, I have a baby thwacking me all day and all night. Making me have to sit further away from my desk, because it keeps hitting it. Yesterday, I saw and felt a little hand pop out. I'd not seen that before, it was a tiny little fist. I felt proud. It feels incredible and although I am now pretty uncomfortable (NIGHT TIME), I am cherishing this time, so close to my baby. Keeping it warm as the autumnal winds sweep over us.

Ode to the lion

The Flower Appreciation Society are in issue four of Lionheart Magazine

Thank the heavens, skies and pastel-coloured shrimps and banana sweets that have saved me. Frik, the fourth issue of Lionheart Magazine is complete. I can't believe it! I have to say – I am very proud of this issue, and genuinely think it might very well be my favourite of all the issues.

A lot has changed since I began the magazine, just over two years ago. People have grown, seasons have passed, jobs have changed, cats accumulated and houses moved. One noticeable thing, is the rise in magazines similar to Lionheart. It's great that more people are embracing the ethos of enjoying the good things and investigating interesting people and lives, finding inspiration in real life's fabulous and intriguing charms, as opposed to celebrity.

I believe Lionheart Magazine has its own, very unique voice and style – and this is the thing I am perhaps most proud of. It feels really, truly 'solid' in this fourth issue and I love how it runs smoothly through the magazine.

I've never compromised on anything to do with Lionheart Magazine – it's my baby! – and throughout the issues, I have ensured that every page, stockist and sentiment, is right for the magazine and true to where it all began. I know I could have taken up the publisher's offer, sold the idea, worked for another, given up when I began my full time job – but nope. This is about far more than money. Trust. This is a magazine. Exactly how I want a magazine to be done. When many people told me it was a bad idea (mainly those in the media biz), I did it. And now I'm about to release the fourth issue – still powerfully independent, still in love with what I'm doing. Big hoorah for that! Aint much better!

Coco-good

Ava, showing off her fangs - Instagram @helsmartin

My love for cocopops with full fat milk has reached a new level. After three bowls yesterday and still pining for more, I have porridge with me today in an effort to stop such sugar consumption. Still bringing an entire bag of 'lunch' to work everyday, still having the little fidghter adoring a mighty wriggle as I try and sleep. Which actually, I love. The spud definitely loves cocopops too, as I always feel little somersaults after I've just inhaled a bowl. 

At the mo, we are trying to sort out all the bits and bobs we need for the kiddo. I have an Amazon bag rammed with stuff, with C systematically deletes of an evening. £40 muslin cloths, yeh? I'm not doing it don't worry, but I can't say I haven't been tempted by the sweet animal / patterned designs and promise of bamboo goodness. Every purchase is considered these days and as a result we have found we are actually saving as perhaps we should have done pre preg. But the impetus is definitely more profound - rather than holiday gallivants, it's all about the kid. 

Emphasised when we went to the shops for some last minute bits for our upcoming holiday and found ourselves in the baby section, finding mini he and mini me outfits. Couldn't help it, the excitement is strong. Boy/Girl? Couldn't tell you. I still think boy. I managed to purchase some animal print pjs for myself. They make me happy. Just like rest does. I love rest, so, so much. 

Lately...

* Two hen do weekends in a row: Pots of silver and gold, sparkling glitter; foil wedding dresses; red faces; sugar rushes; chinking glasses, knees up and dancing florals; walks and stories, beaches and hills; elaborate fantastical outfits; cackling laughter echoing for miles; photo snapping, poses aplenty; cucumber sandwiches and delicate treats; bubbling hot tubs; steaming bathrooms; crafting wings and sharing lives. 

* An old school fair: On the only day that displayed some warmth so far this year, how lucky they were – last year was a wash out. This time, the air was scented with sweet popcorn, doughnuts and coffee, combined with the intoxicating blossom, creating a hazy mist of deliciousness. We lolled on the grass, sat back with iced drinks and did little else at all. 

* At The Chapel: I went here the other day after a work meeting. Extraordinarily high ceilings, walls painted white and a bakery at the entrance. The food is traditional, but with clever somethings added. Flavours that quietly astonish, combinations you can't quite put your finger on. Kevin McCloud was sat opposite and he seemed quite content. 

* Buggy: I had no idea at quite the quantity of choice for buggies out there. Pushchairs are big business, I knew, but how do you know what is right - does it twist backwards, forwards, cram in your car? Can you fly with it, will its wheels fall off? What about the level of recline? And car seats, will one of these attach? Oh, only if you buy this one and that one isn't that great. Difficult. Expensive. Suffice to say we have purchased one and soon after decided we loved it, then argued about it and now we are happy with it. 

* External stuff: Apart from the job, I am doing all sorts of bits and bobs, including a sideline business. I always have enjoyed cramming things in, but I am now getting hugely excited about the prospect of the kid project and just before it makes an appearance - maybe, just chilling out. Focusing on the kid. 

* Helping with the above is pregnancy yoga, which is fabulous. It honestly feels like my whole vertebrae is being tweaked out, one by one. Then add on a massage and some amazing breathing techniques. I think when you start breathing deeply, you realise that you weren't breathing properly at all before. A deep breath is a brilliant, free medicine. 

flower market

I am nest building like a wild person at the moment. Cleaning every spot in the house with apple smelling Cif, dusting and demanding we make an inventory of everything we own and everything we need. Apparently, a kid needs a lot. I have also been building my own virtual house. It's clear as a crystal chandelier that I'll be 100 (and probably still working) before I can afford a house like I want. On top of this, I have been moaning to M Tiger about all the sheer amount of stuff I have to do. He tells me to cut some of it out and then I admit, I do actually want to do all of the stuff I'm banging on about in my life and eventually I realise I should shut up and be grateful. It's just because I get exhausted after doing everything. Then I snap. He says he was warned about this snap from other father men. So I am making a concerted effort to take chill time, not stress and spend quality time with him. Whether he wants to or not.

To be fair, I enjoy most things we do and I KNOW we have a bloody nice life. One thing I enjoyed recently was the Columbia Road Flower Market. Think, an enormous abundance of flowers, clustered together in a world of natural colour, soft petals and proud, wispy and bendy stems. The sounds of shouting bargains, with London East End accents, "Fiver! Get these for a FIVER! £11.99 in Marks and Spencers! A Fiver. Fiver." It was utterly packed and I was enamoured. To make it even more stupendous, there were little shops filled with trinkets along the road, and coffee, deli and cake shops, smoke swirling from the coffee cups, the scent of ten thousand flowers and plants in the air. I couldn't decide between the peonies, ranunculus, roses, orchids, 50 tulips (for a tenner!), or the clusters of hydrangeas. I went for the light pink roses, an orchid and some of those sticks with the little buds as soft as rabbit ears... can't think of their name right now. All for £14. I've heard if you go around 2pm, you will get the  even more bargain, bargains. I want to go back and stock up a garden's worth of plants. When I get my OWN garden, maybe. For now, flowers are fabulous.

Pink, pink rrrroses!

Be

Wouldn't it be fab to be surrounded by towering plants of differing shades of a vibrant green. Sitting on your deckchair-type seat, looking out through your clear glass, window walls to the moving, growing, immersive wallpaper. And just be. Be – not busy. Or not feeling like you should be busy, as your damn lists spiral like Japanese bindweed. Just to 'be', is underrated.

After a very full week, it's time to take a step back. I keep thinking how when the kid makes its no doubt grand appearance, everything will change and I won't be able to 'just be', this post and my 'be' times will become a strange sort of obscure memory.

I have resolved to try and have a million, bazillion adventures with the kid, but also to try and have some peaceful times. Probably for my own sanity, but also because this child 'o mine need to know that it's good to inspire your own adventures. As I was told by children's author, Jacqueline Wilson earlier this week, an imagination is one of the best and most valuable things. And a kid's can be the most vivid and exciting. When peace rumbles through the house and land, that's when the stories and imagination can run a riotous dance.

This week, I also heard: A BBC guest ranting about kid = goat. BBC Susannah said she calls her kids 'kittens'. I like kid.

The Place Beyond The Pines - Synecdoche

I like the brooding, wild Ryan Gosling. That said, in The Place Beyond The Pines (dir. Derek Cianfrance), his character Luke, is chaotic. Incredibly physical, from the striding walk, the tattoos and ability to push his body and mind, while mounted on a motorbike, to the relationship with his son's mother. His emotional self is determined, his yearning to be a good father is painfully real and heartbreaking. When he discovers he has a son, Luke's new role becomes his purpose. But all of this doesn't necessarily work to make a happy family. Luke discovers that the route he follows in order to provide, becomes something that can only force him apart from his son. Too late.

The second chapter of the film focuses on the policeman, Bradley Cooper. Avery and Luke both hold a sort of intensity that makes you believe in them, to gun for them. It's in the gaze, in the furrowed brow and nonchalant expression, juxtaposed with the eyes. It's his quest to better the world, but meanwhile losing a relationship with his son. It's guilt, mixed with hope. 

The final chapter meets the two sons – Avery and Luke's – and comes with a sense of loss and fulfilment. Making for a film that provokes, saddens and most importantly, engages with a feeling that we can't ever control every aspect of our lives. That emotions can rule even the strongest of minds, and that the physical body rules above all and makes for our physical existence. So, switch this round: where we take our body, can free the mind and in turn, make our emotions even more visceral and real.

Kid

No time for nappin'. Wake up! News!

Before I set up this particular blog, I created two others. Complete with email addresses, log in details, simple yet complicated passwords and maybe a draft post or two. Then, within 24 hours I had forgotten all the details completely. Blogs lost, I considered if I was in fact a stereotype. Then, on both occasions I discovered a chocolatey surprise in my bag, made a cup of tea, read, observed and nearly cried as I virtually toured around someone's home online because it was clean, fresh, white and the sun appeared to be shining through their enormous period-feature-ridden windows, all the while rubbing my back, because eeesh it was sore. Perhaps I am a stereotype. Perhaps this is just what it's like.

Dear Reader, I'm having a baby. 

I want to (and will) say 'kid'. But I was told that kid means goat. But it is a kid, it's already a person. In both scans when we saw the little thing it was sucking its thumb, having a little riot. Not wriggling around to exactly where it was supposed to be for the scan lady to measure it's baby head, spine, arms, legs. Apparently, we: "have the naughtiest baby," they've "seen in the whole of 2013!". And: "you have yourself a diva baby". Which is just marvellous. I for one, was exceptionally proud that I have within me a diva baby and hope (within reason), it strives out in impassioned diva ways for all of its hopefully, wonderful and joy-filled life.

I could move on to The Reactions of various people, things to (serious tone) consider, but to be honest I think it doesn't matter. Mr Tiger and myself will be the ones showing and teaching this kid about the adventure that is life. I dreamt I was teaching it all about AFRICA the other night, as it gurgled before me. I can't wait to see eyes widen as we explore jungles, meet lions and take trips to the moon on special helicopters made from spaghetti. Of course, I'm concerned Monsieur Tiger will play only Jazz, 60s artists that 'hummm' and some trashy catchy songs he hears in his carshare on his commute to work. As well as the very real possibility that I'll buy too many ridiculous outfits for kidlet. Also, the classic scenario of one parent being the wild one, riding the waves and jumping from heights and the other (me), the holder of plasters and doc leaves. But I mean, pish, whatever. It's learning right?

So, we're 20 weeks down. Which means in 20 weeks (ish?), we'll meet the diva. What's that, four and a half months? I'm keen to get a snazzy pushchair with tractor wheels, a giant mushroom lamp and a sheepskin sling, but we've just got a couple of books so far. I love them, so cute. A baby.