So the question gnawing at the back of my mind for weeks has been, am I getting broody? (The horror, the horror.)
Last weekend, the bloke and I drove up to a wedding in Lincolnshire with a couple of friends of his. They have an eight month old baby. It took us nearly forty minutes just to load all the necessary accoutrements into the car. Pram, bed, car seat, food, nappies, rucksacks for the parents, clothing. The boot was completely full, and the bloke's car is not small. Said friends are also two of the sweetest, most laid back people I've ever met, and by the end of the two hour drive, even they were about as close to being snippy with each other as I imagine it's possible for them to get.
Even if the little darling hadn't puked at us when we were all feeling delicate with hangovers the following day, I'm firmly convinced the only way to have children is if you have enough money to hire someone else to deal with all the tedious disgusting stuff. And I can pretty much guarantee that I will never be that rich.
