Coco Pinchard, the Consequences of Love and Sex: A Funny, Feel-Good, Romantic Comedy Read Free Page B

glasses to find the surgery number and book a pregnancy consultation?

    Wednesday 4th January

    I can’t remember the last time I went to the doctor. And I certainly haven’t been to a pregnancy clinic since Madonna was young, fertile and singing Papa Don’t Preach. Although, this time round I have no father to judge me, just the whole world. These days no one bats an eyelid at an unplanned pregnancy (which is a good thing), but being an older woman having a baby seems, I don’t know, needy? Greedy? I had a whole speech prepared if anyone asked me why I was at the surgery.  
    ‘Bunions.’ I was going to chuckle. ‘Years of wearing designer shoes and partying!’ and I’d stroke Adam’s arm which would indicate that I only want the bunion sorted so I could carry on partying. Although quite why I’d attend a pregnancy clinic with a bunion, I don’t know.
    At quarter to eight in the morning, the surgery waiting room was like a zoo. I don’t remember toddlers being so wild. At least I don’t remember them having so much stimulation. Mothers never used to bring along the whole playroom, plus a miniature DVD player. Several were serving chopped fruit from Tupperware to their disinterested darlings, and the kids – they were so damn fashionable!
    ‘His trainers are really cool,’ said Adam pointing at a five year old who was being fed papaya whilst selecting an episode of ‘Postman Pat’ on his iPad.
    ‘Don’t do the high street. Those trainers are cheaper online. Although they might not be your size,’ smiled a frazzled looking mother two seats away. She was clad in a huge coat, leggings and trainers. Parked beside her were two buggies, and a wreckage of soft toys were playing tunes and beeping. Two toddlers sat at her feet watching ‘Finding Nemo’ on a phone or a tablet – something with a big screen. Dotted around them were six or seven bags of shopping. The woman looked exhausted, but I could just see the person she used to be, the busy witty professional peeping out from behind her tired eyes.  
    ‘I’m here for bunions,’ I said. ‘They really hurt.’
    ‘Do you want some mummy petrol?’ asked the little boy turning from ‘Finding Nemo’. ‘It numbs the pain…’
    ‘Just watch out for Nemo, like a good boy,’ snapped the woman and turned to face us with a pained smile. The little boy ignored her, leaned forward, and pulled a bottle of chardonnay out of one of the shopping bags.
    ‘Mummy says her mummy petrol takes away the pain,’ said the little boy. He strained to lift the bottle towards me with both hands.  
    ‘Be quiet and watch the bloody film!’ she roared, snatching the bottle out of his little hands. The little boy started to cry; it was a low whining sound, like a plane coming in to crash land.
    ‘No, please. Mummy didn’t mean it…’ pleaded the woman.
      Thankfully my name was called out.  
    We went into the consulting room and the doctor, an elderly chap, barely looked up when I told him I was pregnant. He didn’t check. In fact Adam could have said he was pregnant and this guy wouldn’t have noticed. He clicked a few things on his computer and said,
    ‘I’ve put you on the list to see the midwife, please go back outside and wait.’  
    We trudged back out into the waiting room. The mummy petrol lady was called in next. She scuttled off, as quickly as a woman with two children and a playroom of toys can.
    A little while later I was called in to see the midwife.
    ‘You stay here,’ I said to Adam. ‘We haven’t been married long and I don’t want the illusion shattered by me being put in stirrups.’
    ‘They don’t do that on your first appointment, do they?’
    ‘I’ll probably have to wee in something though…’
    ‘Okay hun,’ he said kissing me. ‘I’ll be here, and it’s going to be fine.’

    A perky young midwife, who can’t be much older than Rosencrantz, saw me.  
    What is it with this new generation of professionals? They use this