The Rise and Fall of a Yummy Mummy [antikvár]

As catastrophes go, it was a quiet one. You wouldn't have known that my world had imploded. I didn't talk about what happened, I stitched it up inside. A single girl might have sulked over a few cocktails before dieting defiantly and declaring cNext!\ My affairs were more complicated. I was eight months pregnant. And Joe remained the proud expectant dad. He'd still trace my hard bump with fascinated fingers, kiss the heat off my bruised breasts. I was his, impregnated, fat and cosseted. But I wasn't enough. It was an unseasonably warm autumn. An 'Indián summer' the breakfast TV weatherman crowed as if he'd divined it himself. That particular September morning I was awoken early by the baby pushing out its tiny palms like pastry cutters under the skin. Too tired to feel enchanted, I gracelessly levered myself out of my enormous bed, (Bought for sex when I was single. Look where it got me.) Puliing up the blind, residential Kilburn revealed itself in slices. The taste of next door's bacon slithered in through the gap in the window frame. Another day, hungry, drunk on hormones. Another day being Amy Crane, celebrated Pregnant Person. Strangers