That can only mean one thing - no more boots! Or socks. Or anything else I have to bend over my watermelon-proportioned belly to try and manoevre on to my feet. Because it's getting really bloody hard and my disappointing lack of attendance at pre-natal yoga classes means that trying to bring the foot to me, rather than the other way around, can mean more groin injuries than a football team.
So it's thongs and ballet flats and anything other footwear that can 'slip on' from now on.
Except for the pesky business of my walks. The one bit of exercise I am still doing. Lack of properly shod feet would be an excellent excuse to give up the walks, but fear of an arse the same size as my belly makes that a rather scary proposition. I need to keep walking and I need lace up shoes to do it.
I could get John to do it, but I always walk at 6am and he's usually still asleep. I could get Jack to do it, but have you seen the quality of a 7 year old's shoelace tying? One word - loose.
There's only one solution. A lady-in-waiting.
Perfect. Can't think of how I've done without one until now really. I'll get on to it. Just as soon as I finish reading last Saturday's papers.*
(* Finish Saturday's papers? Pah! This NEVER happens. Oh well . . . hello groin . . . )