21 weeks

21 weeks pregnant and I'm carrying around a pomegranate! I don't know what a pomegranate looks like, apart from juiced in a glass, so I will refrain from passing comment on that one.

This will forever be remembered as the week I blew my nose and black lumps came out. No, I hadn't recently been on the Northern line. No, it wasn't, as suspected, parts of my (baby) brain. It was lumps of dried blood.

Lovely huh?

I had actually never, ever had a nosebleed. Not once in my life. As a child I used to envy those who had them, because they got fussed over, and, well, it's so DRAMATIC isn't it? Having blood pour out of your nostrils. Roll on 30ish years and I realise it's not dramatic at all, but rather feels like you're drowning in your own breath.

As a side effect of pregnancy, your progesterone levels mean that you have much more blood in your system than normal, which is why you are more prone to nosebleeds and bleeding gums etc. Oh, and haemorrhoids, but luckily I seem to have escaped them thus far (sorry, TMI). But the black lumps of dried blood was definitely a 'WTF is happening to me!' moment. Luckily it was a one-off, but it's not something I'm going to forget in a hurry.

There have been a couple of other things on my mind this week:

1) My mind.

My mind has been on my mind because my mind is not working properly. I've been fuzzy-headed for about a month now, but this was the week things really started to go downhill. Here's a few of things I've done thus far:

Left the gas on. For three hours.

Chased clients for invoices they've already paid (CRINGE).

Turned up to the dentist a week early.

Not locked the front door.

Put the washing machine on without putting any detergent in it.

Left the fridge door open - about six times and counting so far.

Forgotten meetings.

Forgotten half the things I wanted to add to this list.

Baby brain is REAL. I regularly now forget what I'm talking about in the middle of a sentence, and if I have an idea and don't write it down on my iPhone in the milliseconds afterwards, it's gone forever. My vocabulary has shrunk to that of a six year old. It's actually horrible feeling this out of control, and having this much trouble focusing on things, especially when work is so busy at the moment. As a control freak, I am not enjoying not being able to depend on myself.

O has also been using it as an excuse to tell me he's told me things when I KNOW he hasn't. Which makes the whole thing even more annoying.

2) My bump (or lack thereof)

I know a lot of pregnant women complain about this, especially first timers, but I really don't have much of a bump at all. I have had countless people tell me with a tut that 'you just look like I do normally' when I've stuck my tummy out and exclaimed how big I feel and I suppose I should be grateful. But it does make you worry. Is the baby growing OK? Will it turn out to be a midget (unlikely given its father)?

Every morning I do a bump check (which is a bad idea because in the mornings it's practically non-existent) and every morning I think I haven't really changed much at all. The only thing reassuring me is that I have a really long torso (and bottom, my nickname at school: 'Ducky Long Bum', forever unkind and remembered, Notre Dame girls) and so the baby must have lots of space in there which is why my bump is more spread out. I don't really want to look hugely pregnant yet as I'm sure it's very uncomfortable, but it's this damn ambiguous stage at the moment that I don't like - put a coat on me and I don't look pregnant at all, in a top I just look like I've eaten too many pies...

3) The baby kicked me!

You'll be pleased to hear I've saved the non-whinging part till last. I've been feeling squirming movements for a few weeks now, but only when I have been lying on my stomach. This was different. It was an actual kick. I was sitting with my legs up on the sofa reading and I felt this very definite little jab from inside - like someone flicking you with their thumb and middle finger. And instead of being creepy or weird, it was SUCH a lovely feeling that I actually squealed and grinned for about an hour afterwards.

It's definitely made the whole thing feel more real, and now whenever I feel the baby fluttering around I find myself talking to it, a bit like I talk to the cat when he shouts at me. Alas he/she has yet to kick again. I wait in hope and eager anticipation...

20 weeks

At 20 weeks, my baby is a banana! I wouldn't be surprised if I was actually having a banana, as I have certainly eaten more than my fair share of them since finding out I'm pregnant. Bananas are, of course, thinner than mangoes (19 weeks), so in my head it means the baby's gone anorexic, but eventually I'll accept it's all about length and not girth and shut up about the fruit and veg thing.

Apparently, at 20 weeks, I'm halfway through my pregnancy. Which would be somewhat of a milestone if it meant that I now have just as long to go as I have already been through, but, as with all pregnancy things, nothing is as it seems. In fact, for the first 2 weeks of my 'pregnancy' I wasn't actually pregnant at all, because pregnancy is counted from the first day of your last period. Confusing much?

A few interesting things happened this week. I finally plucked up the courage to weigh myself. I have put on 8.5lb since becoming pregnant, which is very average, despite feeling rather traumatic. I am the heaviest I have ever been (and I know, I have a long way still to go...) and I feel it! My legs are achingly heavy at the end of the day. The veins in my left leg particularly keep me awake at night in worry - are they on their way to varicose already?

As my bump is still quite small, a lot of this weight must have gone on my boobs, which are quite frankly, impressive. Last week while at work they threatened to escape my vest top and I couldn't help but squeak:

'My boobs are almost touching!'

'Touching what?' my bemused business partner asked.

'Each other!' I said, marvelling at the sight. I have never had cleavage in my life.

From now on, apparently I'm supposed to put on 1lb per week. I told my mum this while merrily stuffing my face over Easter lunch and she told me not to be so ridiculous, because that would mean I would end up putting on another 20lbs, which would make me clinically obese. When she had me and my sister, she apparently put on about half a stone in total and lost it all within three weeks.

I don't think my mum has read the baby books.

I indignantly Googled it in front of her and proved to her that in fact, I am RIGHT and that I could even put on 2lb a week should I feel like it and still be perfectly within the healthy limits. Her reply to this: 'Well, it was all different in my day.' Hmmm.

Bless my mum, but apparently 'in her day', no one needed pregnancy pillows or pregnancy anything really, she wore her normal clothes quite happily until she was about six months' gone, there was no need for prenatal yoga or any of that nonsense, you didn't even go to the doctor till you'd missed two periods (!!), women were TOUGHER godammit, and certainly NO ONE IN THEIR RIGHT MIND had a home birth. My mum has made her pregnancies sound like nothing more remarkable than having a bit of a cold, and I fear we may fall out before I come to full term, when I fully expect to be reclining in a wheelchair groaning about my 'condition'.

This week, I diagnosed myself, with the help of Dr Google, with Pelvic Girdle Pain. At first I thought I had a bit of sciatica (told my mum this and she told me that she got a 'touch of it' but not, of course, until she was overdue) but Dr Google said no, it was a unique pregnancy affliction, whereby your hips hurt because they are basically stretching apart. And they really are! It's so weird how your body can get wider without putting on any fat in the area - but for once the proof's not in the pudding (I've mostly gone off them) but in the fact it's now quite a struggle to yank my pyjamas above my thighs. Sniff.

Anyway Dr Google prescribed a exercise ball, and so this has been added to the list of random new things in my home, along with the pregnancy pillow, a Lush massage bar designed for pregnant women, some soothing leg cream and a new yoga mat. The yoga mat was technically unnecessary as I already had one but matches the exercise ball. So y'know. I have been bouncing about on my exercise ball quite happily and think it may even play a role in the birth.

I suppose, more than anything else, this pregnancy lark has taught me how utterly vain I am. It's all me me me at the moment - how I'm feeling, what I look like... I feel a bit ashamed, but I find myself preoccupied with all the physical twinges and changes and not thinking much about the baby itself.

I hope that after the next scan (mine's a bit late, at nearly 22 weeks) I will stop worrying about the fact that I just look podgy really, not pregnant, and instead focus on the poor wee mite who's busy drinking its own amniotic fluid and learning how to breathe and forming its first poo and growing teeth buds and doing all sorts of miraculous things like that.

And I thought I was having a hard time. As O said, it's a good thing we don't remember anything that happens to us when in the womb...

19 weeks

Today I'm 19 weeks! Hurrah. The baby has morphed from a sweet potato to a mango. Much better - I actually like mangoes. For one thing, they don't look like dehydrated excrement.

This has been an eventful week. I had another midwife appointment to collect the results of a blood test I had ages ago, that checked me for various things, including syphilis, HIV, whether or not I was immune to rubella, and whether or not I was anaemic.

I have not been enjoying my pregnancy hospital visits. St George's, the goliath teaching hospital just down the road from me in Tooting (so close I can see it over the rooftops from my back garden), is MASSIVE. So massive that for my first appointment, I went to the wrong wing and it took me half an hour to navigate my way to the right place.

Also, it's old. Like, really old and sad. Like a smelly, neglected sofa that's been ravaged by dogs. Here are some snapshots from my appointment last week...

I mean, what a place to be born! Welcome to the world baby. This is London. It ain't pretty.

Anyway, at this appointment, the midwife explained she would be giving me my blood test results, told me my blood group (O positive, very common and unremarkable - sigh) and started looking through some paperwork. Then she looked up:

'Did Michael our blood specialist contact you about your HIV results?'

No, Michael your blood specialist did not contact me about my HIV results.

'No,' I spluttered.

'Interesting,' she said, furrowing her brow. 'There's something on here I don't understand.'

Excellent. Just what you want to hear from your midwife ABOUT YOUR HIV TEST RESULTS.

'Hmm. He's signed it...' she went on, staring at the slip of paper. 'I guess that means everything's OK.'

I guess that means everything's OK?

'Right,' I squeaked. 'Um... Could you... maybe... er...'

'Hmm,' she said, staring harder, which we both knew was not going to make a blind bit of difference. I thought to suggest she Google whatever was written on the paper, but wondered if that might seem patronising. 'Let me look on your file on the computer.'

She went over to the screen and started clicking away. The pressure in the room was temporarily relieved that something was now happening. Results would be obtained. It was all going to be OK.

'I've never had HIV before,' I mumbled, before remembering it wasn't an ear infection or a bout of flu. 'I mean, I've been tested for everything before a few times and never had anything...'

'Hmm,' she continued, scrolling through pages. 'No, there's nothing marked on here. NAD. I'm sure it's fine. Or he would have called you.'

And that was that.

(NAD is another confusing bit of medical jargon, which made my head jerk when a midwife proclaimed it about my first ever urine sample. It means 'no abnormalities detected' which is GOOD).

Of course when I got home, I Googled what was written on the paper - HIV 1/2 Ab/Ag, Centaur - low reactivity, ND in VIDAS and Architect...* I tried to unscramble the ridiculously confusing medical terminology, before concluding that they'd run three different HIV tests, one of which had been a bit unusual, the other two of which were negative. I probably don't have HIV. It was probably a dirty test tube on the first test. Right?

Other than that, this week has been quite nice. I have realised that if I lie on my stomach, the mango doesn't like it and starts squirming about. Fair enough, I wouldn't want to have someone of my (new, ever-increasing) weight pressed on top of me either if I was the size of a mango.

This is less like something from Alien that I imagined and actually really rather nice.

I have also finally found a use for my surrogate partner maternity pillow. I bullied O into buying me one at around 9 weeks: 'All the Youtube vloggers' partners bought them a maternity pillow! You have to buy me one!', when to be honest I really didn't need one. When it arrived, we were both a bit horrified. It looks like a giant sausage, and takes up half the bed. It works quite well as an effective barrier between you, but thankfully as O is on tour at the moment I'm alone most nights anyway, and so it makes a good substitute lump to pull the duvet away from. Anyway, this was the week my hips finally started to hurt, and so I wheeled out the maternity pillow and dutifully wrapped my legs around it. It does help, even if the arm that I have to stuff underneath it inevitably goes dead.

Another interesting pregnancy fact: you're meant to sleep on your left-hand side. Bossy huh? Apparently this way the baby gets more blood. Or something. Something to do with a major artery that runs down your back. Sleeping on your back is now a HUGE no-no and sleeping on your right-hand side earns you a 'could try harder' in the 'doing-the-best-for-your-baby' stakes.

I also had my first prenatal yoga session this week, which was amazing. The yoga teacher is exactly what you'd expect for a yoga teacher who lives in Richmond and only does yoga for expectant mums and people who've recently given birth. She has an awesome name (Bobbie Challenger) and pink hair. I'm a bit in love with her. She also had a homebirth for her first baby. And after my experiences this week, I am now considering the same...

* if anyone reading this knows what the heck it means, you'll be my best friend forever!

18 Weeks

babyonboard

Today I am officially 18 weeks pregnant. Apparently my uterus is now the size of a cantaloupe (ick), and my baby (foetus?) is the size of a sweet potato.

First thing - in a list of many - that I find bizarre about pregnancy: the continual size comparison to fruit and veg. Apparently my baby today weighs the same as a chicken breast, and a chicken breast is pretty much the same size as a sweet potato, so why it couldn't just be described as like a chicken breast is something I have pondered a little today.

Pregnancy has had me pondering many things. And so I thought I might start blogging again so that I can share these ponderings to look back on in the future. Also, I am obsessed with pregnancy blogs and vlogs at the moment so it seems rather churlish not to join the party.

So here are a few of my inaugural discoveries from the last three and a half months...

1) People are very nice to you when you're pregnant. Most people anyway. Not my dentist receptionist however, who told me with a gleeful smirk that hygienist appointments are NOT FREE for pregnant women (when I politely enquired), only dental treatments. Anyway. Others are very excited for you, and as a result, you feel you have to be too, when actually most of the time you're more terrified/in denial. People keep asking me if I'm excited and all I can think is that I'm not sure because it doesn't really feel real yet.

2) Pregnancy makes your body do weird and mostly unpleasant things to you. Well, duh, everyone knows about morning sickness and the temporary boob job but no one mentions the other things - like oddly itchy skin; being unable to shower before eating because the heat/steam makes you dizzy; weird lower back and hip pain; throbbing leg veins; a frightening inability to remember anything; the constant toilet trips in the middle of the night making you terrified of drinking anything after 8pm; the cravings for ice in all drinks - or just very cold drinks; the weeping at everything on television; the ABSOLUTE hanger; the fact that spicy food now seems 20 times spicier than it did before... And this is just some of the SFW stuff. I'm not even going to start on the fact that no one told me that every day of my pregnancy I would have to wear a panty liner. I'm almost missing periods.

3) When you march into the doctor's and tell them you're pregnant, they don't bother to test you, they just believe you. And merrily go ahead and book you in for scans and midwife appointments and all the rest of that jazz without EVER CHECKING YOU DIDN'T JUST MAKE IT UP. The novelist in me is wondering how long a phantom pregnancist could get away with this for... Oh and when you are pregnant, the NHS sends you a Maternity Exemption Card which means you get free prescriptions. Accompanying the card is a letter requesting you return it in the event of a miscarriage. Given this arrives at the point when you are most terrified you may indeed miscarry (before 12 weeks), it feels like an incredibly cruel piece of paper. I did actually stare at it for a while thinking I would keep it if I miscarried, just to spite them for being mean.

12-week-scan

4) Ultrasounds make me cry. I paid for an early scan because - as has been the common theme of my pregnancy thus far - I was convinced that there was some mistake on the four tests I did and that this couldn't be real. Anyway there I was at 8 weeks plus 4 (this another thing, you can no longer remember your phone number but you always know EXACTLY how many days plus weeks pregnant you are) and the scanner woman shoved her little probe on my (flat) stomach and found the baby straight away. And I burst into a weird combination of tears/giggles, meaning I couldn't keep my stomach still, making the whole process impossible and making her tut. I don't know why it made me cry/laugh but it did. Seeing it there felt so unreal - almost like an out-of-body experience.

5) Discussing anything about being pregnant, or the baby, makes you terrified you'll jinx it and something will go wrong. Same goes for buying maternity clothes or things for the baby. The fear of miscarriage is something I can't imagine will ever leave me - especially not those dreaded 'missed miscarriages' which are supposedly rare but which as soon as I started talking to friends about found out that everyone either knew someone who'd had one, or had had one themselves.

6) When you are pregnant, you have no control over anything. This is maybe the crux of the whole thing. I'm a control freak, and now I'm no longer in control of my body, my emotions, or my fate. It's an interesting situation to be in, requiring a lot of attitude-altering, and one which I guess will continue after the baby is born...

7) There's nothing quite like seeing your tiny baby with its oddly bony spine and little flickering heartbeat on an ultrasound, doing a little jump for you, and being told by the sonographer that he/she looks perfectly healthy. It feels like the best Christmas Day you ever had as a kid, multiplied by about a million.

headless-bump

Reading this back, I hope it doesn't sound like I'm complaining. In truth, I am amazed but also utterly terrified and continually surprised by all the things that have been happening to me and my body.

Pregnancy is a huge learning curve and I find it endlessly fascinating. There's so much that you just don't know - or expect - and it's this that I want to blog about, so that I can look back and remember what a miraculous, life-changing time it was. And laugh at my naiveté, in the same way my friends-with-kids have been smiling at me knowingly ever since I told them my news...

Review: No 11 Pimlico Road

Beautiful interiors and beautiful meals are two of my favourite things, so when I was invited down to have lunch at No. 11 Pimlico Road, I jumped at the chance. Describing itself as ‘an evolution of what has been termed over the last few years as a gastro pub’, the restaurant promises to ‘bring a fresher palette and a recognition of true all-day demand from morning coffee to nightcap and everything in between’.

My first impressions were overwhelmingly positive. The space is light, bright, relaxed and buzzy. It reminded me a little of a less-moody Riding House Cafe – no squirrel taxidermy here, but the same easygoing feel, making it the kind of place that can transition easily from breakfast meeting place to Sunday brunch venue to afternoon tea and after-work drinking haunt. The interiors were designed by hospitality specialists Fusion, who worked together with owner Mel Marriott to create a welcoming atmosphere that would work for people of all walks of life.

The design team looked to global trends – such as the relaxed all-day eateries in Australia, and the separate lobby areas in New York which protect guests from the cold – when envisioning the space. They also worked hard to make sure that the details – from the spindleback chairs to the zinc-topped tables – had a residential feel, making it a true home away from home. ‘The aim was for the look to be a reflection of the home, to create somewhere comfortable, somewhere not too prescribed and not cookie-cutter.’ Indeed.

The result is undoubtedly a success. Not sure what to expect, I had dressed up a little for the occasion, but didn’t feel out of place amongst the families and the young couples coming in for a cup of tea after a morning’s run. This might be Chelsea, but there’s no hint of snootiness in the air. Which is an achievement in itself.

Supporting the relaxed feel, the furniture is a mixture of restored and reclaimed. Fusion and Mel sourced a number of chairs, the waitress stations and sideboards from eBay, while local design guru Christopher Howe also provided elements as did The French House, an antiques shop in Parsons Green.

But what of the food, I hear you ask? I’m happy to say that it more than lived up to the interiors. I indulged in the most perfect Sunday brunch avocado, bacon and spinach sourdough bruschetta, while my other half went the whole hog and had a roast beef dinner. I tasted a bit of his beef and was jealous – this is definitely a restaurant that takes its food just as seriously as its ambience. All in all, I highly recommend it – it’s a charming place and you’ll find it suits your needs whatever time of day you choose to drop in!

Review: Royal Smushi Cafe, Copenhagen

Ah those Danes. Those stylish buggers.

I recently returned from a long weekend in Copenhagen with my sister. It was, sadly, freezing cold, meaning photographic evidence of my trip is scanty. It was just too cold to get my camera out. However, I did discover a hidden gem in our desperate quest to get warm: the Royal Smushi Cafe.

We stumbled across the Smushi Cafe quite accidentally. We were wandering down Amagertov, bemoaning our numbed fingers, and from the corner of my eye, I spotted the sign for the cafe down a little alleyway. We wandered in.

What we found was a true haven: the most wonderful space that, despite the crazy high ceilings, was amazingly cosy. I fell in love immediately with the large tea tins lined up behind the bar, while my sister was drawn to the selection of cakes on the quirky counter. Then I looked up and saw the wallpapered ceiling, with the stunning chandelier. And then I looked down and fell in love all over again with the white tiled ceramic 'parquet' floor (hello! WHY do we not see this idea more often?)

The cafe specialises in 'smushi' - its own invention, a combination of the words 'sushi' and 'smørrebrød' - the famous Danish open sandwich.

The smushi, and the cakes, were incredible. So incredible we returned three times.

If you're in Copenhagen, Royal Smushi Cafe is essential as a visit to Hay, methinks.

Dartmouth: my happy place

I'm alive! (As you will know if you're unfortunate enough to follow me on Twitter, where I never shut up).

Apologies for the ENTIRE MONTH I had off from blogging, but quite frankly I needed it. Things have been super brilliant, scary, exciting and stressful over at Decorum and we have, in fact, *drum roll* just moved into our very own office. This is rather unbelievably exciting, because it's a bit like all my childhood fantasies coming true. Do you remember playing 'shops', 'post offices' etc as a kid? No? That was just me then. Well, just BELIEVE ME, there can be little more exciting than a Staples-run to buy stationery for a real-life office, that you can set up exactly as you please - it made me feel about eight again as we stacked envelopes on shelves and opened packets of highlighters.

However, the success of Decorum has meant that I've developed a bit of an allergy to Wordpress. I look after six blogs for work now, all on Wordpress, so the thought of spending my free time also resizing images and fiddling about on this delightful platform became less and less appealing. Hence me avoiding poor Life by Lotte.

But it's 2014! January means one thing to me: getting older. Last week I celebrated my THIRTY THIRD birthday. This is very strange because I definitely haven't been alive for that long. But anyway. For the first year in forever, I decided not to have a birthday party. Instead I escaped to my happy place: Dartmouth. I hope to die in Dartmouth. Weird thing to wish for I know, but I am weird - I wrote a book about suicide.

O and I spent two nights staying in the wonderful Dart Marina. We always stay in the apartments because they are only a little bit more expensive than the hotel rooms and it means you get a bathroom each (which is always nice eh girls), a proper kitchen for making snacks, a fire, a cosy living room and you don't have to stress about having dried your hair in time for breakfast. I heartily recommend it.

Dartmouth is the best place in the world. I don't really want to talk about it too much because it already gets busy enough and even mentioning it makes me nervous of even more people turning up and hogging it, but there's nowhere on earth like it. It's stuffed full of independent boutiques, restaurants and lovely people with dogs who chat to you as you walk past. And opinionated seagulls.

The air is fresh and the views are incredible. I spent my birthday eating coronary-inducing amounts of cheese and cake and buying myself things from the wonderful galleries. It was perfect, and the perfect start to a new year.

2014 is going to be brilliant.

Listen to this

O will be touring with Vincent Simone and Flavia Cacace next year, as the voice of their new show: Dance til Dawn. He sang live with them on this year's Royal Variety Performance - you can listen to him below. (And er, watch them too, if you like).

*proud*

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MOXS7GYIJg0

Christie's Interiors Auction

Last weekend, I went along to my first ever auction, at Christie's. I'd always been curious as to what went on at a live auction, and had always thought that it was probably very intimidating and that everyone there was a millionaire art dealer, and that if I so much as sneezed at the wrong time I'd end up bidding £1m for an ornamental dog.

I've been to Chiswick Auctions many times before on viewing days, but Christie's is in another league entirely. I also had no idea that Christie's did interiors auctions! But they do. Embarrassing.  Mostly held on Tuesdays at their auction house in South Kensington. However, I went along on a Sunday to watch the first half of another sale, and have a wander round the viewing areas.

What fascinated me the most was that the majority of the bidding seemed to be taking place online - or on the phone. There were actually only a few people in the auction room itself, and the (charming) auctioneer mostly spoke above our heads - to a camera (I realised this after a few minutes of wondering if she had a problem with her neck). The pace was speedy but relaxed, and it didn't feel anywhere near as intimidating as I had anticipated. What was also interesting was that so much of the older pieces went to American bidders - they certainly love our antiques. I guess it's the Downton Abbey effect...

But best of all was the range of items on offer. Among the more, er, conservative pieces were some real gems, all guide-priced very reasonably. Albeit with Christie's sale charges yet to be added.

I especially fell in love with this beautiful shop cabinet, guided at £1,500 to £2,000. It was in pristine condition.

There were several other fab pieces that caught my eye too.

Buttoning is always a winner with me but I love this sofa most for its gold legs. Ridiculous.

These made me laugh. Possibly would look a little out of place in front of my two-bed maisonette...

If sofas could talk! Bet this has seen some interesting things.

And finally, I fell in love with this painting. I'm not much of an art fan, but I just thought it was beautiful... At £4-6,000 however, she was a little out of my price range.

I didn't buy anything as I actually need to get rid of furniture at the moment rather than acquire new pieces, but I do heartily recommend the Christie's auction if you're looking for something a little unusual that has heritage. I'm a huge fan of buying second-hand furniture - the quality of older pieces is usually far greater than anything you can buy today and prices are surprisingly reasonable.

You don't have to go to the auction itself to bid, as details of all Christie's sales are online. Definitely worth a look through the catalogues - I warn you though, it's a addictive! And don't even THINK of going near the fine jewellery catalogue...

This was meant to be...

... a post about the evening I spent in the company of the venerable author Donna Tartt. Last week she was over in London to promote her latest novel, The Goldfinch, which is only her third - any of you who know anything about her will know that she writes, on average, one book every forty years or something. What you might not know is that when I went to meet my agent for the first time, before she signed me, she'd read an early draft of The Perfect Suicide and declared that it reminded her a little of blockbuster The Secret History. Which kind of blew my mind (also, with hindsight was superbly generous and possibly a little bit hyperbolic - I suspect the only similarity really was the university setting and general weirdness).

So when my friend Susie suggested we go along to a reading Donna Tartt was giving with Waterstones, I was thrilled and excited. It also coincided nicely with my mum's birthday - and her request for a copy of The Goldfinch as part of the present. Great, I thought. I can even get it signed for her!

But then this happened...

I came home after a morning meeting to find Percy had a massive great hole in his little paw. Cue emergency vets appointment, which meant my evening gawping at Donna Tartt was off.

By the time I got back from the vets - who declared that Percy's injury was, somewhat incredibly, a cat bite* - it was too late to make it into town. So instead I sulked in front of the TV, glaring at the injured party, while reading tweets from people like India Knight going on about how great it was.

Percy, clearly sensing my passive aggressive irritation, spent the evening looking cute and sad in equal measure.

So, instead this post is about a daft ginger cat. And his long-running feud with Beryl the Bold Tabby next door. On this occasion it was very much Beryl - 1, Percy - nil.

Depending on whether or not you're a cat-lover, you'll be pleased to hear he's since recovered well.

 *on a side note, I have since learnt that cat bites are really dangerous to humans. Who knew? Cats' mouths are full of bacteria, and because of the shape of their sharp and pointy teeth, they puncture the skin with a small hole and fill it with bacteria when they bite you. After which, the hole quickly heals over, trapping all the nasty things inside, meaning that if you're bitten by a cat, you've got a 50% chance of it getting infected. So if your cat ever bites you hard - go to the doctor's and get antibiotics.