Saturday 28 November 2009

Sweet enough already? by Kate

Another week and I make the acquaintance of another troop of white-coated Spanish medics and give them yet more phials of my blood to examine. They must be getting pretty familiar with my corpuscles by now.

First event was a routine appointment with the obstetrician - well, another obstetrician. Female again with the standard nurse sidekick and in this case, a junior obstetrician observing as well. Theo and I had arrived early and were resigned to hanging around for half an hour or more before our appointment came up, but as it happened, none of the embarazadas scheduled before us had turned up so we got ushered in within a minute of our arrival.

Blood pressure and a quick scan plus some general questions about how I was feeling covered it on this occasion. The tocologia was more friendly than our previous one and she not only smiled a few times, but actually took the trouble to give us a quick guided tour of the latest scan of Fosbella, who seems to be doing fine and definitely resembles a baby, which is a plus. The whole thing was over in less than ten minutes, which meant we could enjoy some time at home before having to leave for work.

Then the day I had been - well, not dreading, but definitely not looking forward to. The O'Sullivan glucose curve test. I had been on a supposedly special diet for the three days previous to the test (although I couldn't really see anything especially special about it, apart from the requirement for me to ingest at least four big desert spoonfuls of sugar every day, which is quite a bit more than my usual intake) and was then told not to eat anything in the ten hours prior to the test.

I arrived, hungry and a little late at the massive Ramon y Cajal hospital and found the now familiar scene of a packed waiting room full of impatient Spaniards and South Americans waving their volantes (appointment forms) and complaining about the lack of chairs and the queues. Luckily, it didn't take the team in Cabina 4 too long to get to me and I was swiftly sat in a chair, (similar to a dentist's chair, but with better arm rests) and duly tourniqueted and jabbed. I then had to drink another flat, supersweet orangeade-tasting glucose drink and was sent to wait for an hour.

I obediently found a corner of the waiting room and joined the other potential diabetics who were all undergoing similar procedures to me and all looked similarly hungry. A goodly chunk of my paperback later, I was called back and jabbed again, this time in the other arm. The medic was less hassled than the first one (the queues had gone down by now) and took the time to make a little friendly smalltalk while she extracted another few ml of my blood.

Back I went to the waiting room and did a bit of marking to take my mind off my empty stomach, before going back to my book and getting through another few chapters before my next call back to the jab chair and another blood test. I was becoming an old hand by now and even made a joke with the medic about having to start on the veins in my legs soon as she stuck the needle back into my vein.

Back to the waiting room and this time I had a brief chat with another embarazada, who was by now the only other patient left in the place apart from me. She was quite young and was accompanied by her heavily tattooed and highly attentive boyfriend (Theo had offered to come with me, but I had turned down his offer with thanks. No point in two of us hanging around for hours). The girl's bump was impressively large and I was surprised to learn that she was almost a month less pregnant than I was. She assured me there was only one in there, a boy and I concluded that he could well be a future prop-forward for one of Spain's emerging rugby teams. When her turn came to be jabbed, she whimpered, went pale and looked like she might throw up while the attentive boyfriend and I both made reassuring sounds. She got through the ordeal intact and climbed out of the chair, face suffused with relief. I thought of Theo.

Then it was my turn, now with a different medic, who was also rather sweet as she asked me to choose which arm for the final blood test. I went for symmetry, two in each arm and a few minutes later we were finished. It was half past twelve and I was starting to get obsessed with the idea of food. Thankfully Theo had thoughtfully packed a banana and clementine in my bag. I devoured them ravenously as I made my way back to the train and the promise of a lunch date with friends. I was looking forward to seeing my friends, but I'm afraid they took second place to the prospect of food. I can't remember the last time I was so pleased to see a bread roll.

Thursday 26 November 2009

and so it goes...

When we first moved in to our new barrio, back in October, the council were carrying out extensive road works on nearby Jose del Hierro. Well, pavement works would be more accurate. The seemed to be re-jigging the parking spaces, putting in ramps for prams and a cycle path. Anyway, having spent about two months avoiding bollards, JCBs and the dust from stone cutters we were pretty pleased when the works finally came to an end and we could walk the streets more or less unimpeded. The results looked good too.

Then on Tuesday another bunch of council workers moved in and ripped up the newly laid pavement, just a week old, in order to re-lay some pipework underneath.

Sunday 22 November 2009

Mus, Yoga and Pretty Persuasion by Theo

Spanish lunches are quite a thing. Last weekend we were invited to lunch at Belen and Cesar's and made the mistake of having plans for that evening. Bad idea. This weekend we were more sensible, as when we were again invited to lunch at Belen and Cesar's (clearly Belen wanted a rematch at Parcheesi/Ludo), we cleared the schedule!!

We arrived at 2pm as instructed to find that Nataly and David had not only beaten us to it, but were also providing food - a delicious goat's cheese salad followed by cannelloni. Kind of unfair we thought, seeing as we had been ordered in the strictest terms NOT to bring any food. A slight double standard on the part of our hosts, but we graciously let this slide especially as our tongues started to melt with delight at the taste of Nataly's culinary arts. Mmmmmmm! A delicious meal and great company, Cesar bravely trying to insist everyone speak in English (apparently the others need practice, not that we noticed), though lots of Spanish was spoken too.

We hadn't however turned up completely empty handed. We had discovered the previous week that our hosts lacked a set of Spanish playing cards, which we remedied on this visit. Spanish cards have coins, clubs, swords and cups as suits and further differ from English cards by lacking the queen, the nine and the eight. However these cards are completely necessary for playing Mus, a popular card game in Spain, often practised by large groups of old men in bars and squares around town. We first came across it a year ago in Vaughan Town and totally failed to understand it - our complete lack of Spanish back then being a major barrier.

On this occasion Belen, the only one who knew how to play, was much more successful at teaching us despite constant interruptions, questions, protestations and disagreements among her students. It's a combination of poker and bridge, in that you play with a partner and you bet on the strength of your hand, though there are no trumps and the value of the cards changes depending on the stage of the game. Very complicated. Needless to say, the Belen/Katetheo team won.


The Mus lesson concluded, Kate proceeded to instruct Nataly on the finer points of the yoga sun salute (it was dark by now) and the afternoon was rounded off by a foray for films and popcorn followed by a showing of Pretty Persuasion on the large screen - who needs cinemas! It was a very good, blackly funny look at the bleakness of American private schools, teen jealousy and litigation. If you enjoyed Cruel Intentions, Heathers or Election then it's definitely worth renting. By the time we got home it was 11.30pm. Some lunch!

Saturday 21 November 2009

Equal Ops?

We're just around the corner from Calle Alcala, the longest street in Madrid and one of the main shopping areas, especially between Ciudad Lineal and El Carmen. Which happens to be our patch.

So, yesterday, after Spanish Class, lunch and a Siesta we headed out to do some shopping for Kate who is starting to need a new wardrobe - one that has room for her expanding belly and easy boob access. Sadly the latter isn't for me, though I'm sure I'll take advantage.

Late opening is the norm in Spain - in fact many if not most shops close between 2pm and 5pm - so us heading out at 5.30 was no problem. I'm not the best shopper in the world; I'm too impatient and when presented with a choice between two or more possibilities my response tends to be "buy both". Still in my role as supportive husband I was determined to be useful. Besides, I thought, at least I could pick up some plain t-shirts (my current ones all have holes) and socks (ditto) along the way.

Not so! One thing that I hadn't noticed before in Spain is that clothes shops are completely unisex. Even big chains like H & M, Bennetton and Lefties simply don't have a men's section. Sure they have a kids sections (because children clearer only going shopping with Mum - well way to encourage us Dads!) but nothing for the guys. No wonder we passed a few guys reading papers on benches while waiting for their other half to decide. So much for equal ops!

Friday 20 November 2009

Yann Tiersen by Theo

One of the great things about our jobs is that we finish work at 9pm, whereas at my old job I finished at 10pm thus ruling out midweek musical fun. Even so, we still had to jump in a taxi to make it across town in time to catch Yann Tiersen at the Riveria, arriving too late for Matt Elliot's support slot. Never mind, as he was on stage playing with Yann anyway, along with two chums of ours from Bristol: Robin Allender and Dave Collingwood (formerly of Gravenhurst). It's a small world! Familiar as we are with seeing them play in front of 200 or 300 people (at most) it was a bit strange having them appear as blobs on the stage in front of a sold out crowd numbering well into the thousands as part of tour that has already taken in Beiruit, Athens and Barcelona.
Yann Tiersen is probably best known for his soundtrack to the hit film Amelie, but anyone turning up hoping to hear folksy, accordion led instrumentals would have been bitterly disappointed (especially as tickets were €22!) Instead their largely instrumental set was more post-rock than anything else, though pigeon-holing their sound really does it an injustice as there was way more to it than that. A solo violin piece from Yann was particularly captivating as well as some of the slow-build choral numbers involving the whole band on vocals. As the set consisted of unfamiliar tracks to us, we weren't quite as into it as some of the more enthusiastic members of the crowd but it was really enjoyable and never dull.

Despite the best efforts of the ruthlessly efficient security guards who were trying to herd everyone out as quickly as possibly we managed to get Dave's attention and Robin came out to rustle us back stage. They'd had a hell of a day, with their bus breaking down in Barcelona and having to catch last minute flights, but it was great to see them both. We spent an hour or so backstage, managed a few rusty French phrases, bewitched them with Kate's bump before we all piled in taxis to head our separate ways. The next day they were due to head off to Santiago and then back to France, whistle-stop visits seeing the insides of hotels, service stations and gig venues. It used to be my life. While I had a little twinge of nostalgia last night, I don't miss it!

Thursday 19 November 2009

Modern Parents by Kate

Anyone remember the Modern Parents cartoon strip in Viz? Unwilling children who only wanted to be left in peace in front of their TVs and Playstations being dragged to all sorts of dreary eco-friendly right-on hippy activities by earnestly enthusiastic middle-class mums and dads? That's the kind of parent I aim to be. Theo's with me on that one, too. He even goes one step further, refusing to countenance any sort of TV in the house, but I'm not quite that far down the road.

So, intending to start as I mean to go on, I have been researching the availability of washable nappies and baby-carrying slings in Spain. The results of my research was a string of internet complaints about the impossibility of finding such things here and a solitary web-site which imports a few of these products, set up by two ex-pat English mums, who had come across the same problem. Not very encouraging.

I was seriously considering opening a shop in Madrid myself to fill the gap and paying the postage & packaging to get a stock of re-usable nappies, when we spotted a flyer on the wall of our midwife's office. It said Dos Manitas (Two Little Hands) and listed panales lavables among its products. That sounded promising. Then we looked more closely and realised the address was a street we walked along every time we went to or from the Metro station at Pueblo Nuevo. We must have passed it fifty times and never once sussed out what it was. Probably because it's opposite a confectioner's shop with mouthwatering window displays that invariably and understandably distract my attention whenever we're in that area.

Anyway, we went inside to discover the shop stocks seven or eight different makes of washable nappy and a bewildering array of slings in all shapes, sizes and colours. They even had fold-away carrycots made from recycled cardboard and half a dozen second-hand cradles and car-seats. Just the job! Unless I can find big savings on the web, I think I'm going to become a regular customer.

I have so far resisted the temptation of buying anything for the baby, largely for superstitious reasons (Christmas is my preferred date to start laying in supplies) but my expanding belly means I need to acquire a few things for myself. Luckily, the current fashion is for loose-fitting tops, gathered under the bust and designed to flow over the belly, which is perfect for pregnancy and saves me paying the inflated prices for anything officially labeled as Maternity Wear.

The other thing that was becoming urgently required was a maternity bra. I can barely cover my nipples with most of my bras now and the slightly larger underwired ones are just plain uncomfortable. So I went to a lingerie shop and tried on an unassuming white polycotton number, silently bidding farewell to sexiness and hello to stern practicality. But maternity bras cunningly turn into peep-hole numbers, thanks to their built-in suitability for easy nursing and there's an undeniably erotic aspect to that, which Theo was quick to appreciate. Time will tell if my breasts' conversion into udders will change all that. Dairy products aren't usually classed as aphrodisiacs, in my experience.

Wednesday 18 November 2009

Uno, Dos, Tres... empujad!!

A combination of a lack of half-decent Spanish and lack of tennis balls meant I approached my first pre-natal class with a certain amount of trepidation. I wasn't sure why the tennis balls were necessary, but Maite had instructed me to turn up wearing pantalones (trousers) and with two of the balls. I had successfully found my last remaining pair of trousers that I could get over my expanded derriere, but had failed with the tennis balls, owing to lack of time and the Spanish shop opening hours (10 am mostly - or at least those tiendas selling pelotas de tenis...). So, there I was in my pink pantalones, sans tennis balls and smiling in what I hoped was an ingraciating way at the arriving members of Cuidad Lineal's local Bump Club (Club de Bomba) with their impressive range of bulging tummies.

We started with exercises to help with breathing and labour positions. I managed the first pair activity by copying the other women and wih a little gentle encouragement from my partner. Maite then solved the problem of my patchy understanding of the lingo by firmly indicating to me to move to a spot on the mat beside her and saying "Tu, aqui!" She then proceeded to demonstrate the rest of the exercises by picking up my various limbs and manoeuvring them into the required positions, which was a very sensible way of handling the situation, all things considered.

The tennis balls, it turned out, were for a massage technique that involved rolling them firmly up and down each other's backs - and luckily, I could borrow my partner's sports equipment for the job, so that was okay. She was a quiet but friendly Muslim woman (Syrian, possibly?) who wore her head-scarf throughout the class and did a pretty decent job of easing some of the tensions out of my back.

After the exercises, which culminated in a lesson in pushing, Maite gave us a lecture about what to expect directly after the birth of our forthcoming babies. This may seem a little advanced given that it was my first class, but I had joined the group half way through the sessions - I would have to do the first few classes after Christmas. If, however, I had waited until then to do the whole course, it was a fair bet that Fosbella would have emerged before I had completed it. Doing the second half followed by the first half was the next best thing.

Anyway, despite the rapid Spanish, I managed to get the gist of most of the advice surrounding health, healing, breast-feeding, contraception and other post partum matters. I also learned some new vocabulary related to the female anatomy, including pechos (breasts) and suelo pelvico (pelvic floor). I also realised that the frequent mentions of la "ba-heenah" was actually the Spanish pronunciation of "vagina" and that cicatriz meant scar and cicatrizarse is the verb meaning to heal. It's probably just as well partners weren't allowed to the class, the discussion wasn't for those of a squeamish nature (ie, men).

After that, we were instructed in the finer art of foot massage, which we were assured would be excellent to practise on our offspring to help them relax and sleep better and which would be excellent for our partners to practise on ourselves for the same reason. Then, while gentle ambient music played, we lolled about massaging each other's feet while Maite continued her lecture about the days following the birth (nappies, layette and other practical requirements our new-borns would be needing).

After the class ended I had a few brief conversations with some of the other women - a Paraguayan embarazada whose emphatic reply, when I asked if this was her first child was, "Si, y la ultima" ("and the last"); a Spanish woman with whom I compared gestation times and genders and a friendly Italian who chatted to me in English while I replied in Spanish, which had the satisfactory result of both of us practising our non-native languages and gave me a considerable boost in understanding her words as well as she could clearly understand mine. One thing's certain, I'm part of a highly international group of ex-patriots and although my command of Spanish is probably at the bottom of the class, it's comforting to know I'm not the only foreigner plotting my uncertain course through the Madrileno pre-natal set-up. Ex-pats of the world unite, all power to the embarazadas inmigrantes!

Monday 16 November 2009

La Matrona by Kate

I must admit, I was a bit apprehensive about meeting a Spanish midwife for the first time, having heard and read mixed reports about them. The rest of the medical profession I've encountered since lowering myself into uncertain waters of the pre-natal system in Madrid have tended to be brisk, brusque and professional and not exactly brimming over with what you might describe as bedside manner.

So Maite was a pleasant surprise. Brisk and professional, yes. And undeniably, a tad brusque at times (she castigated Theo and me for not being better at speaking and understanding Spanish by now - everyone else we meet has been highly complementary on our emerging linguistic abilities). But - and it's an important but - she has a sense of humour. Plus she wasn't afraid to speak a bit of English to us, which was very endearing as we floundered about trying to find the right words to ask for information on the hitherto more obscure aspects of giving birth in Madrid.

Best of all, she made it clear she was very much in favour of natural, active birth - she told me sternly it would require a lot of preparation and isn't for the faint-hearted, but seemed satisfied when I assured her I was already doing the yoga and relaxation practice to get ready. When we asked about ante natal classes (called pre-natal classes here) she shrugged and said she wasn't sure how useful I would find them as she would be speaking Spanish very quickly and I probably wouldn't understand anything. But she seemed willing to let me give them a try, although Theo was disappointed to learn that most of the classes aren't open to husbands and partners.

The other thing she told us, which was also reassuring, was that Hospital La Paz - our assigned hospital - has a policy of minimal medical intervention during the birth process and suggested that all being well, I should be able to try my hand at doing it naturally without major unwanted interference from the obstetrics team. A far cry from the days when Giles Tremlett's wife gave birth in the same hospital, as recounted in his excellent book, Ghosts of Spain. That book was responsible for grave doubts on my part about the business of having a child in a Spanish public hospital. Still, assuming that Maite is right, we'll go ahead and take the La Paz option, keeping fingers crossed that all will be as she says it should.

Sunday 15 November 2009

Au Natural by Kate

I blame Beans' lovely mum primarily, although my sister and my friend Natascha also have to accept their fair share too. I probably would have accepted every drug offered to me during labour and would have been content to lay on my back with my legs in the air to give birth. That's all changed now.

When Beans' mum heard I was pregnant she presented me with a much-thumbed copy of Sheila Kitzinger's The Experience Of Childbirth, apologised for the dated quality of some of its advice but said it had been invaluable in helping her have three children naturally and enjoyably.
"My mother looked at me while we waited in Bournemouth Nursing Home and said pityingly 'she really doesn't know what she's going to go through', but do you know? I was so relaxed! And it was wonderful! I think my mother was quite disappointed," she said.

When I asked my sister for advice on the best way to have babies (let's face it, she's had four, all at home, all without trauma and using nothing stronger as pain-relief than a warm bath and a paracetamol) she promptly said, "Janet Balaskas," and hunted through her book-shelves for New Active Birth, which she failed to find. When I asked Natascha (two children) the question, she gave me the same answer, so I figured this was well-worth following up. My mother kindly bought me Janet's book for a birthday present and I read it avidly.

As a result of Sheila and Janet's influence, I'm now very keen to try and have the baby sans pethidine, epidurals and all the rest and ideally while remaining in a generally upright position, if possible. So I've been doing loads of undignified yoga positions, practising relaxation techniques and rehearsing breathing methods for contractions and earnestly trying to discover if Spanish delivery suites will be open to this hippie earth-mother stuff or if I will have to consider forking out two thousand or so euros for a specialist private clinic just for the privilege of having a baby without being forced into unhelpful and painful positions or subjected to all sorts of unnecessary medical procedures. Of course, if things get complicated or there's any genuine danger to me or my child, I'd let them do anything they wanted to ensure we both got out of the experience in one piece. But I like the idea of getting through the birth process using only my own efforts, if possible. Having said that, I may wimp out and scream for analgesics, despite all the Taylor positions and Sun Salutes I've done. But I'd like to have a go. And I think there's an element of sisterly competition there too. After all, if Becky can do it...

Friday 13 November 2009

Português próxima

I've just finished reading Night Train to Lisbon by Pascal Mercier, which I really enjoyed. Essentially a story of a teacher of ancient languages voyage of self-discovery triggered by a chance meeting with an unnamed Portuguese woman it was very enjoyable and thought provoking, putting me in mind of Sophie's World (though without the massive plot twist). The book is littered with quotations and phrases in Portuguese, which I was very pleasantly surprised to find I mostly understood - most of the nouns are similar to their Spanish counterparts, while the verbs and articles follow the same rules as other Romance languages. Pronunciation is the major difference. Anyway, I think I'll make a start learning Portuguese next. When I've finally mastered Spanish of course. So 2020 then.

Actually I'm feeling more and more confident about Spanish. I still litter my conversation with mistakes, but I'm generally understood and I usually understand. As we've been negotiating our unborn child's process through Madrid's health service we've both been called upon to engage with Spanish with a greater frequency than before, while hanging out with some of my former students (who have a lower level of English than our Pueblo Ingles friends) has meant we socialise more and more in the language. We've also been going along to free lessons at International House again - really these are training classes for new Spanish teachers, but the need guinea pigs, so we get them free. We've made some good friends among some of the regular attendees, although why there aren't more people taking advantage of them I don't know; often there's been just 3 of us in a class. Still, it means we get loads of attention.

Tuesday 10 November 2009

Puente

Any long holiday weekend in Spain is called a puente - literally 'a bridge' - often because if, say, the Thursday is a holiday they make it a bridge to the weekend by taking the Friday off as well. This past Monday was a puente in Madrid, so we felt it was only fitting to visit a famous puente on our way back from Estepona.


Ronda is one of the oldest towns in Spain, with remains in the area going back to the stone age, though it was under the Arabs that it really rose to prominence, a fortified rock in the middle of a high, fertile plateau, ringed by mountains that became a regional capital. Once Spanish control of Andalucia had been firmly in place for a couple of centuries, they decided the old part of town didn't need to be quite so inaccessible, and so the bridge for which Ronda is now chiefly famous was built, a beautiful construction spanning a plummeting gorge. However Ronda was not just a one-trick town. Even the drive there had been worth it, as we wound our way up the mountains of the Sierra behind Marbella which offered stunning views across the Straits of Gibraltar to Morocco, the Atlas Mountains clearly visible. Ronda itself, with its pretty whitewashed houses, doors open to the cobbled streets revealing beautifully tiled vestibules, was a pleasure to walk around and well worth the diversion on our way back to Madrid.

Monday 9 November 2009

Return to Eden

We just spent a lovely, relaxing weekend at Patty Pan's Paradise, just outside Estepona on the Costa del Sol. While still on our honeymoon, we had spent a great week there and we'd been itching for the chance to get back down, see the friends we'd made and catch some sea air. The 4-day weekend seemed an ideal time, so we loaded up Delilah and headed off. The drive was pretty easy - a cool 6 hours - though there were some hair-razing moments as the road twisted spectacularly through the mountains towards Jaen. Amazing views for Kate, sweaty palms for Theo! We arrived to a very warm welcome from Patty, who promptly put us up in her (absent) daughter's room - much comfier and warmer than Delilah!


It has suddenly got chilly in Madrid, with coats and jumpers coming out of cupboards, so it was wonderful to wake up to flip-flops and T-shirt weather. Naturally, hitting the beach before lunch was the only sensible option. Only Theo was brave enough to go swimming, though in fairness Kate's still getting over a chesty cough, so the bracing waters probably wouldn't have been a good idea. Funnily enough we had the sunny beach and views of Gibraltar pretty much to ourselves.

That evening Patty cooked a delicious roast, and we were joined by Patty's boyfriend, San Steveo (patron Saint of vans), plus our friends we had met at the Rocket Festival, Andy and Kerine. Our attempts to poison Patty, who has a nut allergy, with various chocolates and a nut roast all failed, so we had to resort to beating her at Scrabble. The evening went on late enough that our vague plans for a daytrip to Cadiz on Sunday faded out of view.

Instead Sunday was another wonderfully chilled day of reading, Scrabble, home-cooked curry and an enjoyable stroll along the beach with Patty, Steve and assorted canines. We left earlier today, clutching gifts from the garden and an awesome travel backgammon set made of coloured cloth, which Patty had brought back from India. Hopefully we'll be back soon, especially as Patty wants to be the Jewish godmother of our as yet unborn child. There is definitely a touch of Maureen Lipman about her...

Friday 6 November 2009

The Internal View by Kate

Almost five weeks late, Fosbella foetus finally got her second proper scan. Actually, it's her fourth, if you count the ultra-sound part of the amniocentesis test and the quick check our local obstetrician gave her since we first saw her picture.

This time we had to take the train to yet another hospital in Madrid (Ramon y Cajal) where we had been told (the day before) we had a ten o'clock appointment. As it turned out, so did about twelve other people so, in fact it was another hour and a half later that we finally got ushered in to see the radiographer.

Once more, my belly was slathered with cold lubricating gel and the scanner was slid and pushed against various parts of my abdomen while Theo (with the best seat in the house again) got a variety of views and cross-sections of our fast-developing offspring.

"Lively, isn't she?" commented the radiographer (my translation) in a mixture of admiration and exasperation as our progeny wriggled and squirmed and resisted all attempts to capture her best side.

After about fifteen minutes, the radiographer gave a satisfied nod and told us everything was fine. She then gave us a tour of various cross-sections through Fosbella's bits and pieces, which all appear to be present and correct at this stage. The one thing I didn't get to see was a full head and body view, or even a sense of her face, which was a disappointment, although I did see inside her nostrils, which was something I suppose.

Any hope that the stills taken by the radiographer would offer some sort of clue as to Fosbella's external features were also in vain, although the inside view of her spine is pretty impressive. Theo, who did get a quick glimpse of her face assures me she has my nose (I'm not entirely convinced that's a good thing), although he also says she bears a striking resemblance to Skeletor. At least her internal organs all seem to be aesthetically arranged. True beauty, after all, is on the inside.

Thursday 5 November 2009

Wedding Cake

Our lovely friend S recently asked us to write a testimonial about the sumptuous wedding cake she made for us. As we haven´t had all that much to blog about lately I thought I´d stick what I´d written up here. So here we go:

The cake is one of the highlights of any wedding. Along with the vows, the exchange of rings, the procession, the speeches, and the first dance, cutting the cake is one of the standards of modern western weddings. No matter how out-there and avant garde your nuptials or traditional your marriage ceremony, it's going to feature in some way as a means of including and sharing the ceremony with your guests. The couple cut the cake and pieces are shared out among their loved ones; it's a beautiful, inclusive and poignant moment. It's a way of saying, in an echo of the eucharist, “take, eat; we wouldn't be here without you; you've given us gifts both emotional and physical and you've helped us make this marriage; help us keep it.” The cake is important.


Our cake was important. More than that, it was beautiful, delicious, special and so very us. Our favourite flavours, chocolate, ginger and fruit, were layered artfully on top of each other in stunning colours - bright, cheerful and joyous, with a subtle homage to Bristol Rovers! The gorgeous hand-made fascinater that topped-off the cake was later transferred to our honeymoon vessel to supply a constant reminder of the wonder of our special day. The cake, and its decor, was a perfect reflection of us. Not ones to be traditional about things - the bride didn't wear white and Nina Simone replaced Offenbach - the towering, delicious artifice reflected the festival feel of our boda, in both its conception and realisation. It looked stunning, laid out in the entrance hall as it collected congratulations cards around it, never diminishing in its impact and continuing to attract heartfelt comments and hungry eyes, even as the tables around it began to groan with the culinary contributions other guests had brought. Asymmetrical and delicately balanced, but laced with colour, passion and love, the cake seemed to reflect the reality of marriage - a difficult balancing act that can bring forth great beauty and happiness when worked at. If we put half as much work - and love - as S did into making our cake then we're going to be more than just fine; our marriage will be full of flavour and colour.

Tuesday 3 November 2009

Poked, Prodded and Spiked by Kate

The Spanish ante-natal system has now clutched me to its starchy white-clad bosom and my overriding feeling is that it's a good job I'm the one carrying the baby and not Theo. I'll come back to that in a moment.

Our first appointment with the obstetrician in our local clinic was best characterised as perfunctory. No leisurely hour-long chats with a friendly midwife here - at least, not yet. We were given a list of matronas and we assume we choose one, but we're still a tad confused about that part. Anyway, with minimum hanging around we were ushered into the consulting room where the obstetrician and nurse worked as a team. While the obstetrician asked questions and took notes, the nurse busied herself taking my blood pressure, weighing me, then ushering me round a screen and motioning me to bare my midriff. Once I had done this, the obstetrician came in, slapped on a load of cold gel and proceeded to scan me with breath-taking efficiency. Theo hovered at the back and managed to get a glimpse of our unborn daughter, but I wasn't so lucky. After less than a minute, the obstetrician nodded and gave me the briefest half-smile (she was far too business-like for a full rictus), said “Todo bien” (“Everything fine”) and handed me a tissue to mop the gel off my tummy. Apparently we would have to wait another three weeks for a full scan before we could take a proper a look at what was in there. When I asked Theo how she was looking, he replied, “A bit fat,” which was slightly worrying. Maybe I should cut down on the chocolate biscuits.

A few minutes later we were dismissed with a sheaf of forms, a pregnancy advice booklet and strict instructions to go to the medical centre at San Blas the next morning before nine with a urine sample and absolutely no breakfast (me - Theo was excused that part).

When we arrived at a quarter to nine prompt, we found the waiting room choc-a-bloc with a numbering system policed by a dour looking male nurse who periodically barked out the next five numbers and shooed their owners through a door. We never saw any of the patients come out again, which was slightly worrying. As an “embarazada” (pregnant woman) I was excused the queueing system and was instead told to wait until I was called. While perching on a moulded plastic chair I noted a number of other women with assorted tummy bumps and urine sample-shaped pots wrapped in various bags or bits of foil. Clearly I wasn't the only embarazada at this party.

“Embarazadas!” called out the dour nurse and about twelve of us heaved ourselves out of our chairs and crowded round the door. The nurse herded us into an ante-room where another medic gave us a brief lecture about what we could expect. From what I could understand we would be subjected to various tests, the last of which assessed us for possible diabetes and involved a wait of an hour and an absolute prohibition on eating or drinking anything except water. We were each given a sheet of numbered labels and bidden to queue up at the reception desk in another room full of tables with white-suited medics waiting expectantly behind them. While we waited our turn, the dour nurse abruptly changed demeanour and started cracking jokes, which I smiled at dutifully, despite a total lack of understanding of the punchlines.

When my turn came, an orderly took my urine sample and stuck my stickers on a bewildering variety of colour-coded vacuettes, handing them to me and motioning me to one of the waiting nurses. I sat down and watched in growing amazement as she rapidly took one blood sample after another out of my torniqueted left arm. I counted twelve. When she had finished, she wound on a compress and sent me back to the ante room where I waited, feeling the teeniest bit faint from lack of blood and exchanging glances with the other embarazadas, who were also looking slightly shell-shocked by the experience.

Once we were all assembled, another nurse came in and started handing out plastic bottles full of a suspicious-looking orange liquid. This we were instructed to drink - all of it - and then return to the waiting room. It tasted like a fizzy vitamin drink, only twice as sweet. Spanish people have quite a sweet tooth, but most of the other embarazadas grimaced a bit as the full sugary force of the glucose drink hit their taste-buds. Obediently, we all swallowed the bottles' contents and were released back to the moulded plastic chairs.

Throughout, Theo had been waiting patiently for me having foregone breakfast in a gesture of solidarity. It was a good job he hadn't been invited into the sampling room as I dread to think what effect a room full of medical blood-letting would have had on him. He was also astonished at the amount of blood taken and wondered aloud whether the medical centre was actually a front for a local detachment of vampires. We settled down with some marking to pass the time.

When the hour was up, there was another call for embarazadas and we all trooped back into the testing room. Numbers were called out and as ours came up we were sent to another of the tables and ordered to bare an arm - the other one this time. Thankfully, we only had to give a single sample and I was jabbed, blotted, told to go home and have breakfast, then sent packing again in the space of about ninety seconds. By now feeling somewhat light-headed from a combination of blood-loss and hunger, I gratefully returned to my dutiful husband and we did exactly as I had been told.

So that's that, for another few weeks. We've been informed we'll be notified about my next appointments by post or telephone and in the meantime, we aim to do a bit of research about the business of finding a midwife and choosing a hospital for delivery. On the language front, I'm pleased with myself at having managed a bit of pregnancy chat with some of the other embarazadas, including how far along we were and who was having a girl or boy - or twins in one case - and possible names. It made me feel like a little less of an outsider. Language barrier and unfamiliar systems aside, we are all in the Bump Club.