Hormonal cow

I knew within a few weeks of my pregnancy that I was carrying a girl. Not

because I found out the sex, but because everything I felt was so

heightened, and it could only be explained by all the extra female hormones

I had acquired. I was manic. I felt everything. Fully. Hollyoaks reduced me to

tears on more than one occasion. Deal or no Deal was the height of high

drama, and Ann Robinson’s cutting remarks on the Weakest Link were

comedy genius. Something was wrong. Very, very, wrong. My nearest and

dearest have since told me, that at times, I had become evil incarnate. I am

willing to admit that I went a little crazy.

The first sign of my increasing madness was the decision that I took to tell

the truth about my situation. To everyone. It’s bad enough having to tell

your parents, both of whom have ministers as mothers, by the way, that you

are pregnant. And not whilst in a relationship. Add to that, the fact that

there is a question about the paternity, and you have the makings for a very

awkward conversation indeed. Just picture it- “Mum” or even worse “Dad,

I’m pregnant.” So I have admitted to my parents that I am sexually active,

“I plan to have the baby, and raise it alone” Alone, actually meaning, with

a LOT of your help. “Although I am sure that the father will be supportive,

both financially and emotionally. As soon as we figure out who the father

is!” Here is where I wait for the world to end and the screaming to start.

I am not only having sex, I am having a lot of sex with a lot of people. I have

become a guest on Jeremy Kyle. I am an embarrassment and disgrace to the

family. I am on my own in this one.

This I what actually happened: “Mum I have to tell you something.” “You’re

pregnant aren’t you”  “Uh, yeah, how did you know?”  “your Nana told me.”

At this I gagged. “Eh. How the HELL did she know? I haven’t spoken to her in

weeks!”  “Well” begins my Mum, “as I was driving her to the airport, she

told me that she thought you might be pregnant. So I have known for a few

months now!” “well she was wrong, because Nana was here in March, and flew

home a full month before the Canadian arrived, so there!” “Oh, so The

Canadian’s the father…” Oh lordy, walked straight into that one!

“maybe.” “What do you mean maybe?!”  “I think he is.” “What do you mean?

you think he is, he either is or he isn’t…..” and there the penny drops. “K!”

She calls out, “YOU ARE NOT GONNA BELIEVE WHAT YOUR SISTER’S GONE

AND DONE!” At this point I am willing myself to drop dead, right there, on

the spot. And then I hear it, down the phone line, the unmistakeable sound

of my Mother and my sister wetting themselves laughing.

I got a similar reaction from almost everybody I told about my situation.

Mainly because, as my sister pointed out once the hysterics subsided, this is

so unlike me. I was the good one. She was the delinquent. I got grounded for

being 20 minuets late for curfew, she got arrested and cautioned for

assault. I went to my first club, a low key Jazz Funk night in Covent Garden,

when I was 17, she went to her first Jungle rave, in a warehouse in Aldershot

on her 14^th birthday. I got pregnant whilst in a long term relationship, she

got knocked up by one of two men whilst drunk on Mount Gaye. Hang on, switch

that. The point is, this kinda of crap happens to her not me. Except this

time, it didn’t. And she loved it. For the first time in our relationship she was the

responsible adult and I was the screw up. This one was going to run and run.

My very good friend R had a very different reaction, and understandably so.

You see, it just so happens that R is married to the Chef that The Canadian had come to visit. R is also the twin of the old friend in whose arms I awoke when The Canadian went to London. She didn’t know that The Canadian and I had been

sleeping together. She had NO IDEA that I had slept with her twin. Imagine

her surprise when I told her that I was pregnant and that it was either down

to said Canadian, or said Twin, whom I’d been shagging on and off for the

past 5 years! It was a bit of a shock. To say the least. She needed wine. Lots

and lots of wine.

 We met for lunch a few days later to discuss just how the hell I was going

to break the news to them. There were no words that I could find to make

the situation ok for either of them. I was agonising about this when R

interrupts with the following: “I don’t know why you are so worried about

The Canadian, it’s not like he wasn’t shagging some Blonde at the same

time!”  EXCUSE ME! “Didn’t you know?” she asks, as she registers the look of

horror on my face. “He met her when we were out for J’s (her husband the chef)

birthday. He is TOTALLY smitten. He made us meet her before he flew

home. She seemed nice enough.  Apparently they are spending hours on the

phone and she is flying out to visit him. I was sure I told you.” She had not

told me.

To say I was devestated is an understatement. The Chef’s birthday was the day after our final fumble. Suddenly it all fell into place. Why he kept disappearing in

the club, why he was keen to stay out, on his own, at 4 am, while the rest of

us were calling it a night, why, when he took me out to dinner a few nights

later, he kept checking his phone and then feigned tiredness when I

suggested carrying on the evening at my house.

I felt insulted. Bastard. How could he? Did I mean nothing to him? Expletives

and insults about his manhood and performance in bed ensued, until R burst out laughing and told me to have a word with myself. Why were we out having lunch in the first place? That’s the problem with hanging out with people who have known you since birth, they will always tell you the truth, especially when all you want is sympathy. So I had a word with myself and calmed the hell down.  Many

glasses of wine later – R’s not mine, we decided that The Chef would tell The

Canadian and I would tell The Twin.