Things That Go BUMP!

MY BUMP is growing fast. What was a relatively flat(tish) stomach seven weeks ago is now ballooning so much I can’t do up my jeans.

Same for my boobs. There used to be just the two of them, but now there’s an extra pair cascading over the top of my bra.

‘Do you want my seat?’ a suited stranger offered me on the tube yesterday. I grabbed it, happy to take the extra weight off my feet.

What a shame I’m not pregnant.

No, this extra stone-and-a-half around my middle is a pasta and wine baby. And, short of liposuction, the only way I’m going to shift is to go on a (gulp) diet – or get pregnant again.

Being up the duff does it for me every time. I lost four stone during my last pregnancy and two expecting my first child.

Morning sickness, heartburn and general lack of alcohol had the blubber falling off as my babies grew inside me.

Sure, I suffered stretch marks, leaky boobs and had two emergency Caesareans.

But that’s a small price to pay for a belly that will no longer hang over my giant knickers because I can’t resist cheap wine and seconds of spinach and ricotta ravioli in cream sauce.

‘Your tummy’s getting fat,’ my six-year-old boy Deme said, eyeing it, the other day. ‘Am I having another brother or sister?’

I glanced over at my gym-buffed husband and saw him flinch. ‘Not unless I keep my Spandex pants on for a drink-filled night of passion,’ I muttered under my garlic and rioja-scented breath.

Even Alexio suggested I join him for a workout. I would, if only I could find a gym kit to squeeze into. I’ve decided no more babies. Ever.

So now I’m counting down the days until next Monday when the diet starts. Until them I’m pigging out on red wine, cava and pasta in every shape and flavour.

‘You’ve got to stop eating so much,’ Alexio’s already warned me. ‘Or you’ll never fit into any of your clothes.’

But I’m not worried. I found my maternity jeans at the back of my wardrobe this morning. If I wear a baggy top no one will ever know!