Last night we went out for a curry (unfortunately it wasn't spicy enough to bring forward the arrival of baby J - boo). We waited ages, and ages for our meal so by the time my chicken tikka and chana massala arrived I was ready to chew off Mr Jones' arm. Suffice to say I tucked right in and all was going well - until forkful number five.
I'd stacked it neatly, a small piece of chicken, a few chickpeas and their spicy tomatoey juice, a couple of grains of rice all topped off with a smidgen of minty, yoghurty sauce - it was looking good.
I moved the fork towards my mouth. Up, up, up it went, traversing the huge expanse of bump and then - thwack - the whole lot dropped off the fork and onto my top. It rolled down my mountainous stomach and onto the table cloth. I looked around in mortification, hoping that none of my fellow diners had seen it happen. Luckily I was wearing black and managed to mop up the excess with my napkin before too many people noticed.
The thing is this isn't the first time this has happened. Although it was the first time I had demonstated this lack of table manners in public. Having a bump means that you have to sit some distance from the table, which makes reaching your mouth with your food that little bit more tricky. I am constantly fishing things out of my cleveage and I worry every night when I get undressed what exactly I might find caught down my top. When I'm home alone I've given up wearing anything nice because invariably I spill something down myself at some point during the day - and quite frankly I can't keep up with the washing.
These days Mr Jones tends to comes home, survey the state of me and then asks politely I enjoyed my lunch. If I'm eating something particularly dangerous I have taken to tucking a tea towel under my chin. Perhaps I've spotted a gap in the market - attractive bibs for pregnant women - what do we think?
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