We’ve decided to just tell our families about the ‘news’. I did however tell everyone on the nursery slopes in France, because I probably won’t ever see them again and I’m bursting to scream our secret. Although my overweight, spotty ski-class mate, Andreas unkindly suggested ‘You vil haf an alco baby, given ze amount you guzzle zis week’. Bloody German. I was very proud of myself for resisting the urge to knock him off the chairlift and it would have been soooo easy as the clutz got his skis stuck in the safety bar. A swift thump would have sent him flying. Effective, if not particularly maternal.
Then at dinner, our kiwi waitress, Katie scared the living daylights out of me. [Yes, I told her too, because I’ve known her for 5 days and I didn’t want her to hear on the grapevine.] ‘Oh, I’m not sure you can have any of this. Aren’t you meant to avoid unpasteurized cheese, pates, saucisse, mayonnaise, shellfish and wine? Actually, are you sure you should be still ski-ing?’
It appears that short of dropping acid and shooting up heroin, I’ve already made a gazillion mistakes and am fast becoming an unfit mother. I resolve not to tell another living soul.
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