Waity Katy

I feel for the Duchess of Cambridge I really do.  I mean it’s bad enough being heavily pregnant in the middle of a sudden and rather unexpected heatwave.  But to have the eyes of the world fixed beadily, figuratively speaking, upon your cervix, well it must add a whole heap of extra stress to the mix.  I’ll be amazed if the royal cervix in question actually manages to overcome what must be an almost paralyzing intensity of focus and manages to dilate in the proper fashion instead of yelling ‘that’s it I’m outta here!’ before slapping itself shut and running for the hills.

The poor woman had to endure endless press speculation during her and William’s long courtship about ‘would they, wouldn’t they’ ever tie the knot which earned her the somewhat dubious moniker ‘Waity Katy’.  They duly got engaged, to collective gasps of ‘isn’t she posh?’  ‘isn’t she too thin?’ etc etc as soon as she opened her mouth.  The wedding bells had barely finished pealing when the speculation about when they might breed began doing the rounds.

Her violent and sudden hyperemesis gravidarum (that’s extra crappy morning sickness to you and me) kind of let the cat out of the bag and they were forced to go public early, to a drooling media camped outside the King Edward VII hospital day and night.

As I write this, I have the pleasure (is that the correct word?) of being on call for the BBC for when Kate finally shows a glimpse of being in labour.  When we get the merest whiff of a contraction it’s all systems go and I’ll be one of many journalists camped outside either the hospital in Paddington, Buckingham Palace or Kensington Palace for hours, possibly days on end.  Just like going into labour oneself, it promises to be long, grueling, uncertain and sweaty.  I don’t know about Kate but I reckon we’ll all be needing a bit of gas and air to get us through.

In the newsroom just now, it’s a sort of collective lingering, watching, trying to go about everyday business, calm-before-the-storm atmosphere as plans are checked, tweaked and endlessly discussed.  It reminds me of waiting to give birth to my first born.  I went overdue by two full weeks and basically if Kate does that then we’re all stuffed, as the end of term is fast approaching and the working mums who are essentially the glue holding BBC News together have mostly booked annual leave to be with their own sprogs.

In my own two weeks of confinement (well actually it was more like a whole month because of course you daren’t actually go anywhere leading up to your due date either!) I mostly sat on my backside, swollen ankles elevated, eating giant bars of chocolate and imploring various friends and relatives to nip to the chip shop on their way home and bring me my usual.  I would, occasionally venture from sofa to kitchen to garden then back to sofa.  God I was bored.  I even began to welcome those annoying calls from well-meaning friends asking if there’s ‘any news yet’. NO!  I’m still sat here the size of a flipping whale just like I was the last time you asked.

When it finally happened and I felt the first odd twinges of a contraction, I kind of dismissed it and didn’t even tell Husband as he left for work that morning.  I did some gardening before huffing and puffing my way around Tescos, alarming the poor checkout lady as I wheezed through a contraction and carried on packing my shopping, an odd assortment of cat food, a marrow and a lightbulb if I remember correctly.  Labour had been so elusive I really could not believe it was actually happening.

So now I’m sharing Kate’s confinement in that I daren’t go anywhere too far from London.  We’re all sharing William’s burden of attempting to go about every day life while jumping every time the phone beeps. I’m making tentative plans with friends, school mums for end-of-term coffee and the hairdresser, but on the understanding that I may well cancel at the last minute if the balloon goes up.  Come on Kate love, eat some pineapple, have a curry, get William back down south for, ahem, that other activity that is meant to bring on labour (or do the royals have staff for that kind of thing?), please get on with it before the kids break up!