Those Braxton Hicks contractions are only happening in the evenings, and still haven't turned into anything more regular or painful. It's not that I like pain, because I don't, but if it isn't painful then it isn't labour. And I am really ready for labour.
My mum came by this morning with large jars of pickled ginger. It was good that she came, since she needed the excuse to get out of the house and get some exercise, but I would have been a lot less annoyed if she'd told me she was coming. When she turned up with her friend and his grandson (neither of whom I know well), it was only 9.30am and I was slobbing around in a dressing gown - not exactly presentable.
I finished the book I was reading, Daughter of the Empire. I normally stay away from fantasy because they tend to be full of unpronuncable names and require a comprehensive glossary at the back, but this one wasn't so bad. It turned out to be all about political intrigue in an exotic Eastern-sounding world where honour is all important, swords are made from hide because of the scarcity of metal and silk is spun by people-sized insectoid aliens. First I had to get over the improbability that a 17-year-old cloistered girl, Mara, could possess sufficient native cunning and deviousness to manipulate powerful, experienced Lords. After that it got enjoyable. I'm now reading the sequel, Servant of the Empire, in which the same girl falls for the charms of a red-haired (and suspiciously English-sounding) barbarian slave called...wait for it...Kevin.