Chris will be catching the plane leaving from Entebbe in 4 hours time. The flight takes him via Nairobi and he's due to touch down at 6:30am tomorrow morning in Heathrow. He's been asked to find a toy giraffe for Grace and to pick up some Ugandan tea and a pack of Kenyan coffee. Once he's this side of the globe he'll jump on the train and all being well with crappy East Anglian Rail (arrrghh, they could be the fly in the ointment) he should arrive at the station across the road for 11:30am.
After 7 weeks of being without him I'm stupidly excited and looking at the clock with huge impatience. Hurry, hurry, hurry. I'm attempting to fill the gap this afternoon with a visit to the cinema - mum and I have been talking about going to see the King's Speech and today seems as good a time as any. Killing time can be a painful experience!
In anticipation of his arrival I stopped work on Tuesday, I finally had my hair cut yesterday and today I will attempt to do something with my impossibly hairy legs. That bit is not easy and I've realised it's the start of things to come in dodgy personal hygiene. I'm not able to bath due the risk of infection, so shuffling about in the shower is as good as it gets, except without my glasses on and being unable to see below my tummy it's all about the blind leading the blind.
And in my excitment I just skidded down the wooden stairs on my arse and thought I'd broken my hand. I was wearing a pair of Chris's socks from Kathmandu that are 12 years old. That statement in iteself is wrong, is it right to have socks that old!?! Having waited 10 minutes for a bruise or a cracked bone to pop through I've neither. The socks on the other hand have been whipped off and flung across the room.
As I crash through week 29 of our pregnancy will he recognise me as I stand at the station platform tomorrow morning? That right now is the big lady lump (and her baby) question!
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