These last few months have been quite a trial physically.

When I was pregnant with Wren, I feel I got off quite easily. No major morning sickness or drama of any description. But, as you already know, this current pregnancy has already been fraught with more drama that humanly necessary. And we’re only 13 weeks in. I’ve pretty much spent the last 3 months sequestered in the house, wishing that I thought that actually throwing up might be the solution to my problems. (Seriously, folks, I would rather be forced to listen to right wing radio than throw up, but if I genuinely thought I’d feel better afterward, I’d consider it. But morning sickness, sadly, is not like having consumed a six pack of Woodchuck Cider.) So, with little else to do, I’ve been plowing through as much fiction as my little brain can absorb. In case anyone’s interested, here’s what’s been keeping me occupied.

I’m just talking here, by the way, so I can’t promise that I won’t reveal plot elements of these books, but I’ll try to steer away from outright spoilers.

The Kingdom Beneath the Waves and Rise of the Iron Moon by Steven Hunt: When we went to the States in May, I discovered a book that I’d actually brought with me to read during our CHRISTMAS visit 5 months earlier called The Court of the Air, which is Steven Hunt’s first novel of the fictional country of Jackals (based largely on England) and the world that it inhabits. This was my first introduction to the “steampunk” genre (Wikipedia describes the genre thus: “The term denotes works set in an era or world where steam power is still widely used—usually the 19th century, and often Victorian era England—but with prominent elements of either science fiction or fantasy.”) and after having finished it with some satisfaction, I embarked upon the second and third of his Jackelian series. While the first tome was slightly heavier with a good deal of mysticism and pseudo religion, the second two of the series read like bloody good adventure serials, with a cliffhanger at the end of every chapter, especially Kingdom Beneath the Waves, which focuses on a group of hearty adventurers who race to find a dangerous artifact in an even more dangerous country.

Hunt has obviously fleshed out his universe well, from the religious practices of the peaceful “Steam Men” of nearby Mechania (living machines ruled by an immortal king and subject to the whims of their mechanical gods, the Loas) to the horrors of revolutionary Quartershaft. (Jackals neighbor, obviously France, but taken slightly more in the direction of a particularly nasty breed of communism) All three books tie together a number of familiar characters, so while the plots of the three books vary, the reader definitely feels like he’s following an overarching story. Good fun, all three of thee books.

THUD! by Terry Pratchett- I read Pratchett when I’m between books, usually. Having gone through most of his catalogue, reading a Discworld novel is a bit like ordering the same thing every time you go to the Indian restaurant. You’re not quite sure of what’s new out there, so it’s much easier just to order a chicken korma. Something easy and predictable to digest.

The witches are my favorite of the Discworld cannon, but I have to admit to not having spent much time on the books relating to the Watch. (I think I’ve met a lot of old women over here that remind me of Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg, so I have a bit of a soft spot.) This Watch novel focuses on the always vigilant and honorable Watch Commander, Same Vimes, who’s in a race against time to stop what amounts to a race war kicking off in Ahnk Morpork between dwarves and trolls after a leading dwarf figure is murdered and all of the signs point to a troll killer. Pratchett, as always, draws parallels between the Disc and modern day concerns: religious fanaticism, racism and how one relatively small group of crazies can manage to keep the healing balm of truth from the masses.

The Little Giant of Aberdeen County by Tiffany Baker: I remember seeing this reviewed quite a long time ago in the book review in the Independent and it sat patiently on my Amazon wish list (which I also use as a reading list) until the paperback came into print a few months back.

A sweet and satisfying story of a girl called Truly, who’s gargantuan frame, even at birth, influences the path that her life is to take. It follows her as she navigates her way through childhood and adulthood in a sometimes cruel small town, discovering secrets, making friends and finally coming into her own. I hugely enjoyed it and would not hesitate to recommend it.

The Affinity Bridge by George Mann: My steampunk jag continued to one volume of George Mann’s Newbury & Hobbes Investigations. It didn’t take long to feel as though I’d jumped in in the middle of a story in progress, but from what I can gather, The Affinity Bridge is the first in the series.

Perhaps it’s that the steampunk genre was starting to lose it’s lustre by the time I got to this book or perhaps the writing just left me cold, but Mann’s tale of a transformed London, a brilliant investigator with a drug habit and his equally brilliant female protege didn’t quite work for me. Sherlock Holmes meets I, Robot meets Mad Max down a dark alley. I don’t think I’ll be delving any further into these chronicles.

The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters and The Dark Volume by GW Dahlquist- Recommended by Amazon due to my purchases of Steven Hunt’s novels, these two steampunk novels kept me busy for some time. Both were long and complex, but still held a lot of the action/adventure serial feel that Hunt’s novels did, but on a slightly larger and more baffling scale. The books tell the tale of 3 separate individuals who are, through varying circumstances, drawn into a vast conspiracy to take over the world through the power of a mysterious blue glass. I did, however, have several bones to pick.

Fight sequences in movies are often unnecessarily long and boring. Doubly so for a book. I have to admit to having skimmed several sections until coming to the end of these epic sequences, making a note of the winner and going on my merry way.

There are really only so many times that one can escape from certain death without a tedious predictability creeping in. Seriously, folks, you just stop caring after a while.

GW Dahlquist is a bit of a doofus in real life. I only discovered this AFTER having finished The Dark Volume, however, and this knowledge did not color my reading in any way. Dahlquist is the only individual to bring a private prosecution against NASA for allegedly faking material brought back from the moon (he claimed - unsuccessfully - that several pounds of ‘moon rocks’ had been lifted from his backyard in Tampa, Florida). It should come as no surprise after that tidbit that he is also a moon landing denier. Hey, I’m one who believes that everyone is entitled to their opinion as long as they don’t expect me to believe it too and don’t scream about it in public like a nutjob, but I think the old axiom that “the only way that two people can keep a secret is if one of them is dead” is enough for me to believe that it is more feasible that we actually WENT to the moon than that a SHITLOAD of people lied about it and no one found out.

Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman- One of two books sent to me by my friend Roscoe, who wanted to keep me happy and entertained while I felt miserable. I’ve had some small experience with Gaiman before, but it’s always been hit and miss. While Good Omens remains one of my favorite books of all time, I didn’t get on with American Gods. However, this  delightful fantasy was very engaging. Gaiman introduces us to the idea of the “London Beneath”, a place where the disenfranchised find themselves thrust into the bizarre under/beside city that exists alongside our own world and need to fight to navigate the dangers of a hostile world. A world where there IS an Earl of Earl’s Court and that the infamous “Gap” that needs minding in the underground is all too real. A good, old fashioned fantasy novel that was over far too quickly.

The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield- Roscoe warned me that this book was not only compulsive reading but had a denouement that she just didn’t see coming. She was entirely right on both counts.

I’m glad it was recommended to me, because the cover portrays it to be something of your basic chick lit, family- with- a- terrible- secret type book and I know that I never would have picked it up based on it’s description. But Setterfield is terrific with words and her prose, in places, is just divine.

Out of the blue, Margaret Lea is asked by one of the world’s leading novelists, known for her enigmatic life, to finally write her true biography. Lea is sucked deep into the story of Vida Winter’s life (as is the reader) and all the while we learn more about Margaret’s private, but remarkably parallel tragedy. And Roscoe was right. I totally didn’t see it coming.

The Lost Symbol by Dan Brown: Okay, yeah, you caught me.

Reading Dan Brown is a little like having a very large bag of Cheetos. You keep telling yourself you’re going to stop and close the bag in a minute, but a few hours later, you suddenly discover that you’ve got an empty bag, orange residue all over your fingers and a deep sense of personal shame. There are a lot of things that bug me about Brown (not the least of which is his hugely expositional “Look! I know how to use Wikipedia!” style of explaining complex concepts to the reader) but the biggest is that his books ALL read like screenplay novelisations. Why he didn’t just go into scriptwriting in the first place, I’m not entirely sure.

In The Lost Symbol, our intrepid hero, brilliant Harvard symbolist and mild mannered nice guy Robert Langdon is once again pulled into a web of codes and symbols and getting chased all over creation by all manner of people when all he really did wrong was get out of bed that morning. Solving puzzles that have baffled the ancients since the beginning of time mere SECONDS from imminent catastrophe, Landon goes on a whirlwind tour of Masonic DC and escapes the clutches of any number of devious foes to save an old friend and stop a madman. Sound familiar? Sigh.

However.

As much as I would like to say that I didn’t like this book, I actually did. Perhaps the subject matter, being slightly more secular, struck me as slightly more interesting. Nor did Brown engage in any blatant “OMG, TEH MASONS R TOTALLY MISTICAL, K?” chatter that might lead people to storm masonic temples looking for the secret of the universe like they formerly overran the tiny Rosselin Chapel in Scotland searching for the location of the Holy Grail. The book has a far more humanist angle that tied together Masonic beliefs with the Noetic science: research into the potential of the human mind and furthering human capacities in general. Perhaps Brown’s usually exposition (in the form of Langdon delivering a concise lecture for nearly  3 pages while being chased by the police) didn’t bug me as much because some of it was quite fascinating. Of course, I plan to do my OWN reading on the science of Noetics to separate fact from artistic BS.

It was 7 quid. Worth about 6.50, so if you can  get it for less than a fiver, you’ll definitely get your money’s worth.

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So, what next on the Potalist? Well, I indulged my trashy fiction side (I know, I just read Dan Brown, but I PROMISE I’ll read an Austin next without having someone threaten to stick a fork in my hand or ANYTHING!) and got Dead Until Dark by Charlene Harris which is the basis for HBO’s “True Blood” series. The Rock Star and I got shamefully addicted to it, so when I finish this one, I’ll have to wait til I’ve seen series 2 before reading the next book. (Yes, I’d rather watch a silly vampire show than read a silly vampire book. And I REALLY don’t even want to talk about “Twilight”.) After my little vampire treat, I’m not sure where to go literarily, as it were, so any suggestions are much appreciated!

This is a little bit of how life has felt recently.

I took this picture in the emergency room on Saturday afternoon. Every time we’ve had to go there for some reproductive difficulty, The Rock Star and I, no matter how downcast we are, manage to find something amusing. The last time, we saw a chart for the treatment of children and when to administer pain relief. One of the criteria was “SOB?” While of course we are aware that this stands for Shortness of Breath, it was amusing to think that a doctor might administer some sort of pain relief simply because the kid was being a complete asshat.

At any rate one might try to use this photo as a metaphor for the NHS in general, but as I am feeling particularly well disposed towards them at the moment, I preferred to apply it to my own situation. Drowning, not waving, with no lifeboat in sight.

WARNING! IMMINENT TALK OF LADYPARTS!

Anyone who’s suffered recurrent pregnancy loss will probably tell you that the worst bit is getting pregnant again. A blissful pregnancy is not to be for the multiple miscarrier. There is worry and tension and the terrible 3 month wait to see if things are going to go north or south. I read a miscarriage blog a while back in which the writer admitted a certain sense of relief at another loss, because at least the crippling worry was over. When you see a lot of blood, at least you don’t have to wonder anymore.

So, at 11 weeks, when I saw a copious amount of red blood, although my first reaction was to feel nauseous (not much of a stretch; I’ve felt extraordinarily sick for the duration) and to wonder why in the name of holy living hell this was happening to me again, a very small part of me stopped holding it’s breath, which almost felt…well, good.

A&E is always the first port of call. Unlike previous visits, every doctor who came to talk to me was British and completely understandable. I have no doubt that all of the rest of the staff on call from different countries are COMPLETELY AND 100% QUALIFIED to do their jobs. But when it comes to your health, it makes SUCH A DIFFERENCE to be able to clearly communicate with a doctor and have total faith that they have understood you. I hate that statement even reading it back because it just sounds so white-western-elitist, but if there’s anything I’ve learned over all of my encounters with Medicine, it’s that clarity goes a REALLY LONG WAY. Also unlike previous visits, the A&E was relatively clean and free of other people’s bodily fluids, but this might just have been because it was only 10am on a Saturday morning.

Of course, being a weekend, there was little the A&E staff could do for me other than to schedule an appointment and give my notes to the GYN ward in case I needed to be admitted.

So, this morning, I was escorted this morning to Waiting Room C at the hospital. I’ve been in it before, so I knew the way. While I’m glad this waiting room exists, it sucks. It’s at the back of the antenatal unit, far away from pregnant bellies, but it’s tiny and cold. It’s the room for the scans that aren’t going to be good news. Don’t get me wrong. I’m TOTALLY grateful for this terrible little room. Back in the mists of time, when I had my first miscarriage, I was forced to sit in a very crowded waiting room full of expectant mothers. Obviously, someone had an ounce of common sense and created the “Mercy” room.

They finally did call my name and while waiting for the scan tech, I thought,

“By the end of today, this is all going to be over. I can have a good cry tonight and then try to figure out what to do next.”

I was told in A&E on Saturday that they could book me in for an immediate D&C following the scan if need be. So I came totally prepared with pajamas, socks, and two books.

So imagine my absolute freaking shock when the technician turned the monitor my way.

“So, okay, here’s your baby, and here’s the heartbeat…”

Excuse me, the what now?

Despite the copious red blood, despite everything…still there. My cervix is closed, the placenta is firmly attached and NOT covering my cervix, so she basically had no explanation for the blood other than “Sometimes women bleed during pregnancy.” Of course, this has certainly not been the case for me. Some women may bleed during pregnancy, but I sure as hell haven’t been one of them. If I see blood, RED blood, it’s always been game over.

The NT scan, luckily, is booked for Thursday, so I’ll have some more reassurance later in the week.

The scan put me at 12.5 weeks. This is my fifth pregnancy, but only my second ever second trimester.

So, I guess today, I finally located the bell.

I have, of late, been pretty much stymied in blog writing efforts due to lack of motivation as well as lack of interesting things occurring. Well, this is not precisely true, but we’ll get there when the time comes. So, instead, I’ll ramble on a bit about our neighbors.

Our building is made up of 4 flats, but at a 90 degree angle to the building sit two moderately attractive attached cottages. We don’t know much about the family who lives in the one nearest the road other than the woman seems to be pleasant, teaches piano and has an elderly dog. The one closest to the flat block, however, is occupied by two rather peculiar inhabitants, who shall, for all intents and purposes known as The Twitchers.

Our dealings with Mr. Twitcher have been limited, as he works abroad during the week and only returns to the familial manor on weekends. We suspect this may be because of Mrs. Twitcher, but cannot be sure if his usually surly attitude is a result of his two days a week with his wife or if it was a character flaw long before she came into the picture. Mrs. Twitcher is the sort of person to whom prolonged exposure might result in some sort of facial tic.

I may have had occasion to previously mention our downstairs neighbor, The Owl, but in case I missed out a vital point, she too is a Twitcher. The Owl is a serial door slammer and Lady Macbeth Style weeper who’s antics are hugely audible through even our fairly solid concrete floors. She arrived last year with her husband and the two of them rented the flat below us. However, several months after their arrival, her Mr. made a hasty departure, never to return. (Well, except when he came to get his stuff a few months ago, resulting in a profanity laden sobfest that we were able to enjoy even in the comfort of our own living room.) Although it might have had little to do with his actual departure, The Rock Star and I have always speculated that perhaps he too might have been frightened off by the constant presence of Mother Twitcher, who, from the moment they moved in, was a permanent fixture in their flat.

Everyone has met a Mrs. Twitcher. She is one of those people who is most certainly not happy unless there is something to complain about. She has shouted at some of our visiting friends for parking in the wrong spaces in our driveway. (which has absolutely nothing to do with hers) On the day we moved in, she shouted at us for parking PPD’s discovery by our front walk in order to get things up the stairs. (which again, had absolutely nothing to do with her.) She has, in the past, claimed that our flat was once gutted by fire. (although no one else in the area has any recollection of the event, nor have we found any evidence to suggest that it might be the case.) We’ve never had any major disagreements with her, (and will endeavor not to in our remaining time) but her lunacy has always been a catalyst for much headshaking in the Potamus household.

Mrs. Twitcher’s lunacy, as of late, has been exacerbated by the building works that are taking place in a plot adjacent to both the flats and her cottage. What USED to be a great, ugly metal works when we moved in has been demolished to make way for 4 houses: A great aesthetic improvement to any sane observer. And a boost to property values. However, the moment planning permission was granted for the site, Mrs. Twitcher’s crazy went into overdrive. The evidence we have of this came from a Google search of our postcode. One of the hits produced a PDF of a letter from the councilor who granted permission for the works, trying to allay the concerns expressed by the public, in 34 points. The 34th point, entitled, “Personal Critisisms of Me by Mr. and Mrs. Twitcher” he states:

For the most part these are largely irrelevant to the planning merits to be debated at this appeal and I do not intend to enter into any debate on the issue…I am not, however, going to enter into any ’slanging match’ with either Mr or Mrs Twitcher.

So, it’s fairly obvious that somewhere floating around there is a letter from the Twitchers questioning the counselor’s a) motives b) character c) actual preference for little boys/livestock/inanimate objects.  As of yet, we haven’t really had the time or inclination to look for it, but we bet it would make for some fun reading.

A few weeks before the diggers moved in to demolish the site, The Owl slipped a “petition” through our door, asking for our signatures in order to place an indefinite hold on the works. This was round about the time of my miscarriage in March, so clearly indulging the whims of our batty neighbors was not exactly high on our list and from what we know about petitions, we were pretty sure that the “significant number of signatories” was probably somewhere between 5-8 and would most likely be used by the council as a cheap alternative to toilet paper. However, ignoring this important document got us the cold shoulder for a number of months. This was totally fine by us and resolved to remain twig-in-the-stream about the whole situation.

Of course, now that the diggers are firmly entrenched, there is something to complain about on a daily basis. Sadly, the initial demolition actually DID do damage to the Twitcher property, sending them in paroxysms of rage. And, as crazy as they are, fair enough; one of the bulldozers knocked down part of their wall, crushing their car. To make matters worse, according to Mrs Twitcher, the construction company hasn’t paid any compensation; they had to go through their own insurance company to cover the damages. Of course, we only have she-who-claimed-that-our-flat-once-burnt-down’s word for it. Now that the actual building work has begun however, it has not diminished her capacity for madness.

Yesterday, as the Rock Star, the Prawn and I returned home, we encountered her in our driveway where she had a moan about the construction vans parked in our lot. (OUR lot. OURS. Not hers.) The Rock Star tried to change the subject by bemoaning the fact that all of his lot sweeping a few weeks ago was almost completely undone by the ravages of autumn.

“That’s their bloody doing as well!” she remarked.

“I’m sorry?” said the Rock Star.

“All those leaves everywhere!”

Ladies and Gentleman, now that it’s autumn, our batshit crazy neighbor has blamed leaves falling off of the trees ON THE BUILDING WORK GOING ON NEXT DOOR.

I hope you’ve enjoyed my little missive. Hopefully, reporting in earnest will resume shortly.