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| Talk,
Julie Miller,
19 January 1999 | |
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What foolish planet was I on, when one mad balmy summer night last July I conceded that what Nick and I really really needed was another baby? One night of passion followed by nine months of misery. Of course, this is not always the case - my friend Glenda sails through pregnancy without gaining an ounce, then springs back into shape like an elastic band. Meanwhile the rest of us resign ourselves to hanging out - not in bars and cafes like new age bohemiam mothers with babies strapped to their hips, just physically over our underwear. I'm afraid that for me pregnancy brings out the worst. A cross between a pre-pubescent teenager who wants to be left alone under the duvet and some sort of hormonal monster who if any one dares to get too close punches first and asks questions later. The other deciding factor on whether I should once again shuffle through almost a year up the duff should have been the forthcoming Millennium night celebrations - by which time I would, of course, be heavily pregnant and heavily pissed off.
Still, not deterred we ploughed on. Or rather I did - Nick's involement in the whole pregnancy adventure ended back then in July. Christmas came and went (perfect for non-stop snacking) and the big countdown to the dawning of a new Millennium began. As it turned out our usual group of friends had either been struck down with flu or had been whisked off to the four corners of the globe to see in the New Year, leaving us with a 2 year old, and no baby sitter. Even my parents who are usually quite happy to spend New Year's Eve with a bottle of something sparkling from Sainsbury's and a couple of puff pastry things on astick had fallen foul of the rumour that the only place to be was by the river Thames. Not wanting to be defeated, Nick and I set off at about 6.00pm on New Year's Eve to join the band of revellers lining the Thames to kiss goodbye to 1999. We'd spent the day eyes-peeled watching Gaby Roslin on TV (not good) watching the world celebrate (not much better). Sadly the content of BBC's mega 36 hour coverage offered little more content than shots of fireworks exploding around the world (seen one seen em all ) and close ups of 18-year-olds from foreign parts snogging each others foreign parts. Things really hit rock bottom once Lenny Henry (whose target audience for comedy is obviously 10 year olds) bounced onto our screens. It was definitely time to go.
We were parked up and by the river in no time at all - no mean feat considering that the Metropolitan Police had cordoned off most of London 2 days in advance. We headed past Lambeth Bridge along the Embankment towards Westminister Bridge. With our 2 year old safely strapped into her buggy our plan was to hit the global food stalls we'd read about while dancing to the music we'd heard about which was to be beamed onto large screens all along the Thames and finally find somewere to have a pee (the pee was my idea - another pregnancy thing). We'd then head back to take our place opposite Big Ben.
The closer we got to Westminster Bridge the more uncomfortable it became; we were chasing an impossible dream and heading straight toward my worst nightmare: 6 million drunk people with no sense of direction. A good time - with a small child, a buggy, and no friends this side of the equator - just wasn't going to happen. We swiftly returned to the only empty(ish) spot along the Embankment next to a couple from Kent who had obviously spent their entire life savings on every piece of flashing Millennium kit money could buy. The type of couple who would camp out for days to be the first to see the latest horror by Andrew LLoyd Webber. Things were not looking good. There was no music to dance to, no food stalls and worst of all NO TOILETS! Nick, now completly pissed off had no drinking partner, a pregnant wife who wanted to pee (a lot) and a 2 year old daughter who, having polished off the all the sweets we'd brought to keep her happy, had now decided it was time to get out of her buggy and make a run for it.
It was time to go. We'd managed to last just one hour before we gave up the ghost. By 9.00pm we were home with a curry, a box of party poppers half a bottle of champagne and yet more Gaby Roslin. At midnight we pulled our poppers, drank the champagne and went to bed. The only saving grace was that the whole reason for our trip was to see the wall of fire - which I'm sorry to say did not happen. The organisers have since given the feeble excuse that the River of firex travelled so fast that most people missed it. 6 million people just weren't quick enough. What then I wonder is the point of harping on about the most amazing extravaganza to hit the Thames since Guy Fawkes planned to blow up Parliament when it travels so fast that blink and you'll miss it.
So that was that. The next morning, while it seemed that every other inhabitant of Planet Earth was nursing a hangover, we were up with the lark tearing down the Christmas decorations and having a jolly good old spring clean.There's no time to waste after all - we've got a new baby to prepare for.
Oh happy days.
Next year I'm definitely getting pissed.
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