Yay! I've just been out! I've had a lovely evening watching bands and catching up with workmates. And I got to take a tiny handbag! Not one filled with nappies, extra nappies, wipes, spare clothes, dummies, toys, bottles, more toys and emergency organic carrot puffs (like wotsits, but made of carrot. Genius)
Came home to find The Baby and Husband both safe and well. Although I'm not sure how much trouble they could have got in, given that she was in bed before I left. This weekend will still be the real test...!
I am now rather worried about this weekend actually. Not about The Baby or Husband (he has promised that the Museum of Knives and Fire is strictly off the agenda), but about the other matter I mentioned yesterday. Tonight, I have realised that I am incapable of conducting a conversation without mentioning my baby, my life with a baby, other people's babies, or anything else baby-related. I just can't do it, it's like some kind of reflex. I also have no "Too Much Information" boundary. I think it may be because pregnancy, childbirth and breastfeeding are so undignified that you are left with absolutely no shame whatsoever. Which tends to mean that I'll be halfway through a sentence about my post-partum haemorrhage or difficulties with a manual breast pump, before realising that the friend's boyfriend I'm talking to looks like he wants to hang himself. Perhaps I will buy some trendy magazines and intelligent papers to read on the train down, so I can talk about culture and politics and that.
Off to bed now. I'm very tired. I left at twenty to eleven, I have no stamina any more. Night.