Bumpity bump bump bump.

I dunno what the hell it is about certain times of the year that brings out veritable hordes of pregnant women, but spring is one such time (wonders: what the hell was going on 9 months-ish ago?! And where do they hang out the rest of the time?) I can hardly move in work for pregnant chicks; I'm terrified there might be something in the water. Perfect excuse to not get anywhere near those 2 litres a day, ha?

While some of my work colleagues are only kilt helping compile lists of baby names ("Irish, but not too mad-sounding" seems to be a resounding theme - no Fuinneogs need apply, then), with one woman in particular insisting that she be summoned belly-side at the first sign of a kick ("I just love that feeling!" - sorry love, unless you the baby daddy that's just weird, yo), I'm wishing for simpler times when the hot topics of conversation were gorgeous shoes and new make-up trends, not tearing (yes, yes seriously) and creche fees.

I may have to slit my wrists with a rusty spoon if this goes on much longer, and it will - the girl in my office who's up the proverbial duff has another 8 weeks until her maternity leave starts.

Even The Wire, boxsets of which Himself is currently bet into, has a pregnant storyline. Escaping into the blogosphere's not providing much respite either - Nicole at Making It Lovely is busy baking too, and a recent commentor on her site advised that, at 37 weeks gone, she should really get cracking on a bellymask. Which is, as you'll see if you've the stomach (ho ho) to follow that link, pretty much what it says on the tin: a cast of the preggers female form.

Jesus H.

Where did I put me spoon?!