It's now almost 35 weeks. And boy am I resembling a taut zeppelin. My dinky little set of one or two stretch marks down my left side have flourished, and I'm now gaining a pleasing zebra-like pattern along both sides. Ace.
It doesn't really help that when I tell people how far I am (only when they're polite enough to ask!), they say "But you're so tiny!". I feel somehow that undervalues the enormity of my gut. But I'm not even getting any support from the Bean, who - far from swimming luxuriously in his amniotic bath - appears to spend most of his time with his elbows, knees, hips, heels, and all other bony appendages pressed solidly against my ribs and stomach. I imagine when he finally comes out, his face will be all mushed up, rather like the kid against the sweet-shop window.
On a good note, I do have my appetite back. On a bad note, this means that I've been stacking weight on at about a kilo a week. I wasn't particularly concerned about this until I mentioned it to the midwife. She 'hmmm'd and 'haaaaa'd a bit, and then suggested that I might like to take some gentle exercise. And possibly not eat more than 4 or 5 roast potatoes in a sitting. That's ok. I can give up the potatoes - in lieu of sticky date pudding.
I have started to keep a diary of food intake and exercise. The result of this is that I'm actually spurred into doing more exercise. Virtually every day, I make an effort to do something, unless I'm feeling really vile. Unfortunately, this discipline hasn't extended to my eating. I simply write down how many scoops of ice-cream I've eaten that day, and stare at the record a little sorrowfully, while munching my way through some chocolate. Swings and roundabouts.