I assume then, you've heard of Rosemary's Baby. I'm sure in its time, it was a terrifying and disturbing film, but I was inspired to watch it recently - given the continual proddings and palpations from within.
It's a hoot, ain't it? Ok, I *did* feel a little sorry for Rosemary during her early pregnancy - not necessarily for the pain, but for her whole drained, wan appearance; I felt exactly the same during the first 16 weeks, coped with it a whole lot less, and didn't even have the Son of Satan to blame.
At 25 - nearly 26! - weeks on, I'm starting to see where the *real* evil lies. My bottom has ballooned, and in pretty much colour, texture and size resembles the earth's largest satellite. The glimpse I caught in the mirror last night was enough to make me gibber and quiver in best Mia Farrow fashion. It was enough to send me reeling in horror to the sofa, where I sat and watched another episode of House and gorged myself on the rest of the packet of tim-tams.
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