Today I’ve been really tired. It shocks me how little I can do compared to before I was pregnant. I went to yoga today, did the recycling, then straight onto the supermarket, the deli, dropped stuff off at a charity shop, at the Handyman Centre I discussed ply and battens at length and finally ordered the damn shelving ingredients, then home, by which time I needed a big old sleep.

I suppose it was a lot to do in a (non stop) day, but I still can’t get used to how quickly I get worn out. I tend to think “I’ll just get these few things done then rest”; ‘these few things’ take ages, and before I know it I’m exhausted, and much of the day has gone.

Didn’t start work till 4 pm today, but at least we have loads of good food in, including Booja Booja chocolate truffles which were the first items unwrapped (the babies wanted them).

Life just doesn’t seem to let up, but I need to find a way to sift the essential tasks from the non, and streamline my activities to make the most of my time. Probably a good idea to learn that now in preparation for extreme fatigue and task overload when they arrive.

Reading back my post, there’s a clue in ‘discussing ply and battens at length’ as to where I’m going wrong. Discussing ply? Exactly.

That’s a bloody relief then. And it must be true because James Lynch said it, Elaine Martin said it (truly brilliant Iyengar teacher, second only to Bob Phillips) having told me I looked ropey the time before (no mincing of words), and Ruari said I looked really well. I’ve always maintained these intelligent people know what they’re talking about.

Blooming is good. It’s what you’re supposed to do when you’re up the spout as Johnny put it. Only I’ve not felt particularly bloomly really. In fact they’re wrong. I look a mess.

Did you know that you can have twins with different fathers? A strange thought, but obvious when you think about it. Of course it would mean sexing with two different men in the same ovulatory (did I make that word up?) cycle.

You could have a brown one and a white one together. Hey but don’t anyone make assumptions about the bedroom habits of mothers with rainbow coloured twin kids – I’m sure there are other reasons for such happenings.

OK. An odd dream that might be better not shared. But ever the blabbermouth, I will.

It seemed to last all night, this dream, and was about a 1960s Silver Cross pram in a charity shop. Actually it wasn’t Silver Cross, but that type, coachbuilt, chrome… On first inspection it was rubbish - dusty, shabby and really expensive. I knew they were unpractical, dated, and that I certainly didn’t want one. Just couldn’t leave it alone - I knew it was no good, but was willing it to be. The more I fussed over it, the cleaner it got; the chrome became shiny, I kept finding unused accessories to it in original packaging. It got cheaper until it was £95, but I didn’t want one! Just couldn’t get the thought out of my head that Caroline had said they were good for babies’ daytime naps under the trees outside (sort of nanny in the park, Peter Robin style; she dreamily reminisced, how we all used to be cute…).

The decision to have it or not was an immense struggle over a whole weekend (big waste of time, strangely familiar, that inability to make decisions) that no one seemed to be aware of. I was around lots of people who were oblivious to my crippling difficulties. Next I seemed to have bought it (just couldn’t let it go), and was wondering why on earth I had, it seemed such a burden, more stuff, making me sluggish.

Ok, two analyses:

1. Liking something unsuitable, and willing it to be right knowing it never would be; being attracted to things that make life difficult, are testing…
2. Perhaps just liking something is difficult – needing to justify that desire through practical, tangible reasons, a desire for the sake of desire not enough perhaps?

Answers on a postcard please…

Oh and then I was at a nudist lakeside holiday resort.

Phew – it’s great to know mothers everywhere are supported by some truly inspired retail products – got to get some of these. Hand knitted organic veggie baby rattles. Far out.

Of course I need to know if they’re identical; obviously if they are, I’ll be getting matching outfits and giving them rhyming names.

I love knowing each baby’s sex, but equally like not knowing their zygosity, i.e. whether they’re identical or not. I wouldn’t want the entire surprise of sex discovery at birth, but it is exciting to wait and see if they resemble one another when born. I’m assuming they’re fraternal (non identical), because that’s most likely – 2 out of 3 pairs of twins are.

If they do emerge looking alike, we’ll have to see how they develop to get a clue about zygosity; that will be interesting to watch too, I like to think we have something to discover over time. Identical twins don’t necessarily look alike at birth or even later on however, and contrary to the (mis)information we got from the 12 week sonographer, the presence of two amniotic sacs doesn’t necessarily mean fraternal, ditto two placentas. It’s surprising how many parents of twins are under that assumtion having also been given the wrong information by NHS staff. One placenta can only mean identical twins, though two placentas can fuse, and be delivered looking like one. Monozygotic twins resulting from an early egg split may have a placenta each.

Monozygotic twins resulting from one egg share 100% of their genes, whereas dizygotic share half – different hair colour at birth I guess could be the first clue for us.

Blimey.

…but Paul’s already plotting their tennis careers. I think he’s just realised – same sex, same age sibling = instant training/doubles partner. What opportunities that brings… With a dreamy, distracted look, he was murmuring something about being at Wimbledon, watching Venus and what’s her name play the final (I know all about tennis). Kerr-ching! Paul, you’ve got a $ sign in each pupil.

In the space of two days they’ve gone from making barely any discernable movements at all, to squiggling, wriggling seemingly all the time. It’s all good. I expect a time will come when I’ll say it’s not good. Perhaps when foot meets ribs, or fist punches soft internal organ in closest proximity?

Maybe they’re fighting. I would. Must be horrible in there…