I got a call from the Community Midwife on Sunday evening (ooh, tricksy - making sure I was in). I thought it was the Husband calling from work so I answered it in the deranged voice I save for him. For a second she didn't say anything, then I got a frosty "May I speak to [me] please." Erk. The rest of it went like this:

Community Midwife Nazi: "I understand that you're pregnant, congratulations."
Me: "Um. Thank you."
CMN: "You're 15 weeks, yes?"
Me: "Um..."
CMN: "I will be doing your assessment, and I normally do this in your home."
Me: "My...?"
CMN: "I am available next Wednesday, or the following Wednesday, Thursday or Friday."
Me: "?"
CMN: "You are legally entitled to time off work for this."
Me: "Oh, good!"
CMN: "I will be there between 12 and 4."

So it must be like when you get a fridge delivered and they can't tell you an exact time because then you wouldn't be sat there like a moron for half a day, and where's the fun in that. At least I only have to work til 11.30.
My friend at work pointed out that the Nazi was probably coming over to see if I would be allowed to keep the evil alien spawn once I'd had it. So now I have to tidy the house and get some nice biscuits in. Although depending on what it's like when it gets here, I'm not that fussed and she can have it anyway. Another friend at work explained that this Nazi was probably going to be the one I would see for the rest of the way through this whole business. Shit, I hope I get on with her then. Although knowing my luck, it'll be mutual hate at first sight.

So, if it's 15 weeks, apparently it's now the size of a grapefruit, which is odd because I still don't look any different and am happily wearing normal clothes. You'd have thought you'd notice having something that size inside you. Last night the husband demanded to know when I was going to get fat, and complained that all the Fatty Fat-Fat, Trunky-Wanna-Bun jokes he had lined up were going to waste.

We have bought stuff for it. Maybe a bit presumptuous, but they were on sale, what can I say. When I say "we", I mean the Husband decided we were buying stuff. The first thing is a buggy/pram or whatever they're called these days. He went into car-buying mode, telling me about the differences between all the models, and comparing the pluses and minuses of them. I couldn't honestly tell them apart - essentially they're boxes to put babies in on a set of wheels, but he was very pleased with the one we've ordered. I am not very pleased with the pikey cow we've bought it from off ebay, ffs who doesn't accept Paypal on there apart from benefit-claiming tax-dodging shysters? If it doesn't turn up, I'm calling the Inland Revenue and suggesting they investigate her finances.
The other thing is a Bottle Steriliser (ooh, scientific-sounding). Which we need, so I'm told. I'm happy to be led here, because I am not doing the tit thing. End. Of. Discussion.