Do you know what, I think the twatting record’s got stuck.

Finally re-united with my computer (been imprisoned in my fetid NHS bed on an overheated ward without sniff of a wireless connection for a good week) I’ve read back through the last 3 or 4 posts and concluded that I’m not really giving value for money here. Thank you all for your concerned messages, but the story of my fat legs is becoming boring. Correction – it’s become dull as fuck, and you really don’t deserve to be subjected to such blatant self-pity any longer.

And just so you know, I’m no longer upset by it. Yes it’s shit, they hurt, I move like an eighty year old arthritic, but they look so daft, it’s actually quite funny, and apparently this temporary situation’s doing me no harm at all.

So last night we took some pictures; you might get to see them. But for now, I have a little catching up to do on events in the last week or so when my progress reports were non existent. I’ll fill in the details in some sort of order; lots to say, but for now, just this – my faith in conventional medicine is waning more than I ever thought possible.

I will admit now to being worried. I don’t like this at all. The swelling in my legs (now all the way up to the top, and showing a little in my wrists and face) is so severe that my movement is inhibited, and walking is becoming painful. Staying in any position for any length of time allows fluid to settle, meaning a change of position is very uncomfortable. Bending my legs now beyond 90 degrees is almost impossible with the fluid behind my knees.

My legs throb and ache and I don’t know where it will end or if it’s dangerous. My skin is sore and looks ready to burst. Paul has put the end of my bed up on blocks. I’ll report on the effectiveness of this in the morning. Can’t talk about this any more, it upsets me.

Yesterday after sicking up my entire cooked breakfast just minutes after coaxing it carefully down (the cat made me clear up more rodent entrails from the Persian carpet in the hall), I was once again back in my bed on the maternity assessment ward.

Same tests all over again, some very kicky babies (with LOVELY growth charts, “mmm yes, beautiful” she said, the gentle midwife with the lisp), nothing up with my blood, blood pressure acceptable, and nothing to report from the sticky pad heart machine.

I gently suggested that I stop coming in so much, expecting resistance - to my surprise my freedom was granted. I am evidently considered less of a risk now, though twice weekly blood pressure and weekly blood tests will be done by my midwife. (Never mind that, I’ll be doing my own pressure every day thank you very much. I have my own machine you know…)

So that’s all good. What’s not good (and they seem uninterested in this) is that my tubby legs are expanding faster than ever; my taught skin now stretched to the limit, shiny and pink from toe to thigh feels sunburnt by the end of the day, an odd sensation in winter. I tried the popular advice of resting with them up – a disaster – with this much fluid (I can put on 1/2 a stone in a day) in just half an hour it’s shifted to such an extent that I can’t bend my knees. Not funny!

Like some kind of Frankenstein creation, my beefy legs and skinny arms appear to have been sourced from different bodies, so mis-matched are they. Even my chav velour track pants are beginning to groan under the strain…

Stretch mark cream now reserved for legs as tummy seems to be coping so well.

So – another scan, and once again these two girls are doing fantastically well. They care little about my lumpy legs, swelling induced restricted finger, even arm movement, stiff joints and intermittent lower back spasms that without fail bring on a face worthy of a gurning competition. Another way to look at it is that they are well aware and are behaving impeccably so as not to add to my burden (woe is me…). Good girls, keep that up when you’re born please.

This time their measurements are almost identical, just one millimeter between their head sizes, and the same story with femur length and abdominal circumference. One cross slap bang on top of the other and both still slap bang on that desirable middle line on the chart. Now once again I can’t help wondering if that points to identical twins, as why would fraternals at this late stage be so similar?

Speaking of which we were told again that they weren’t due to the presence of two chorions, the outer sacs. “Oh” I said, looking out of the window, pretending to accept the well meaning nurse’s explanation. Paul’s becoming increasingly frustrated with this, and speaks of taking in some good teaching material, calling a staff meeting and giving a brief lesson on the exact permutations of twins and their amnions, chorions and placentas. Go Paul…

Such a common misconception is this, that I heard of a mother in the States recently that scooped first prize two years running for her baby sons in the ‘fraternal twins that look most alike’ competition. (Do we have those? No, didn’t think so…) The following year DNA testing found that they were in fact identical. Oops!

Having spent most of yesterday back in hospital for some waiting around and the odd repeat check, I’m now at home with itchy stickers on my chest strapped up to a machine that records 24 hours of heart activity. Having been largely ignored by the first consultant on Wednesday, I upped my game, writing a clear list of symptoms and asking again for investigation into the odd heart rhythms and weakness I’ve been experiencing.

The combination perhaps of my precise list and a different doctor meant this time, to my surprise, I was taken utterly seriously. Immediately an ECG was ordered, then the other machine, after which the registrar sent a message that he’d like me to remain in overnight for observation. I got exactly what I wanted, which was to be taken seriously, but was now caught between feeling pleased at my success and nervous of what I’d started.

Against medical advice I declined the offer of a comfy night on the ward and the promise of some great food (Jamie – you’ve done school canteens, now it’s time to get onto the hospitals…), and feeling a bit rebellious, settled myself in front of Celebrity Big Brother with a curry that I couldn’t manage more than a mouthful of. Bad idea. I do struggle with food, but this was properly rank. (Jamie – when you’re done with hospitals, get onto the curry houses.)

My own bed was well worth going against medical advice for even if NHS food might have proved a better option than the gunk I ordered. The deal with the equipment was that I remain connected for 24 hours, without bath or shower (swimming pool OK presumably), and record all activity along with precise times and symptoms. Putting on the light to note that I’d got out of bed for the toilet at 4.54am (no symptoms to report), was tedious I have to say, but remembering that I’d brought this upon myself, I dutifully obliged…

Some poor sod now has the job of tallying my scribbles with the machine’s readings and making some sense out of the data. As for me, it’s now 3pm and I have some slimy stickers and wires to remove. Phew…

On her visit (chez moi, very nice), the midwife found my blood pressure to have reached 140/80; with a booking pressure of 100/60, the significant increase along with my unexplained swelling caused some concern. She’s to take another reading on Friday – if the diastolic figure reaches 85, she plans to monitor me, threatening hospital admission if it reaches 90. Boring – have to avoid if that if I possibly can I’m thinking. I’ve always had such low blood pressure, so I smugly decide that admission is highly unlikely.

Today when my own checks reveal a reading of 170/100, I actually admit myself without struggle or permission. Over the space of 4 hours I’m subjected to various blood and other tests, fetal activity monitoring (they’re squirming as usual, oblivious to my issues and seemingly perfectly happy with textbook heartbeats), but with no real conclusion as to why my ankles look like cold custard poured into a pair of tights, and why my blood pressure has gone from a healthy low to an alarming high in a matter of days.

Since it’s customary to comment on the staff, I won’t disappoint. I was lucky enough to spend most of the time with the kindest, most helpful, caring, attentive and wide angel on earth (nurse, midwife? I never have got the hang of hospital uniforms). Then, the tranquility shattered as Dr Sour arrived, clearly having left his bedside manner in the car park.

Not only did he pay little attention to and dismiss most of what I said, he had scant disregard for the obvious concern of my GP, midwife and the angel, with the air of someone who has better things to do with his time. (“Why did you come in?” he asked).

Like many people, I have a blood pressure monitor at home, but bought it when on special offer more for curiosity than serious medical need. However in this case it proved a very useful first alert, with the readings tallying pretty much with those of the calibrated hospital machines. Obviously displeased at what he seemed to consider my intervention, he asked why I possessed one. I paused saying that I didn’t know how to answer. I spent the afternoon in a large, clean and pleasant room, though clearly too cramped for his ego.

When he left the angel apologised to me for his manner. I felt sorry for her having to do that, but it did make her even more lovely. When I asked for his name and confided that I found him a bit abrupt, there was a certain rolling of the eyes that said it all. “You and me both…” she said, her halo glowing brighter than ever.

These feet are really looking stupid now, and I took them for the doctor to have a laugh at today. He didn’t find them funny at all. In fact, he took them very seriously, right away requested urine and blood tests to check out my liver, kidneys and other parts, and ordered the midwife to pay me a home visit in the morning armed with the results.

The answerphone message I got from her said she’d be with me before midday; she didn’t expect me to be out, as I’d obviously be resting. I didn’t know I was meant to be resting. It must be worse than I thought. I’m very happy though, not to have to heave myself back into the car to go to the surgery again (I move as though crippled).

I’m glad he took this seriously. Ankles fatter than your head is obviously not a good thing, and this is the third time I’ve pointed it out to my care givers.

I’ll interpret rest in my own way, as duvet, daytime TV and plenty of cake.

I am so tired. It’s almost week 32 and chronic fatigue has stepped up a gear. Whether to put it down to getting up 5 times in the night and finally giving up trying to sleep at 5am (the bonus was that I saw a beautiful strong moon casting a magical light between the shrubs on the lawn) or just the tail end of this cold, I’m not sure. Both I expect, plus being properly up the duff, and carrying an extra 3 stone about (I’ve overtaken Paul – eek! The talking scales say “one at a time please…”)

Mornings used to be my best time, for energy, enthusiasm and a general lust for life, albeit one that often waned exposing harsh reality by lunchtime. This morning my legs felt too weak to hold me up even for the time it took to make two pieces of toast and peanut butter. I was back in bed by 8am, though did manage to see to a load of washing and get a beef casserole going in the slow cooker first before I slumped. At least I don’t have to cook tonight. Love the slow cooker, it’s like someone else has made you your tea…

Lucky me that I can go back to bed – I’ve just guiltily realised that some do this with a child or two already. I have no right to complain.

Woke at 9.30 to the cleaner doing all the jobs I’m delighted to avoid. Bliss. A second breakfast is way more delicious than the first when you’re watching someone else clean the sink.

I had my first “double trouble” comment today, and was asked later if I’d conceived naturally. Strangely I didn’t really object to either, though I hear these are pretty much top of the list for riling parents of twins or twins to be, along with being asked whether boy girl twins are identical. Durr…

(One little girl’s stock answer “No, he’s got a willy and I haven’t” seems to do the trick.)

I’ve made an equipment list – it’s shocking how much we seem to need for these tiny creatures. I suspect it’s not ‘need’, but rather ‘want’ and well… something else. I used a checklist of some 180 items from a baby magazine as a starting point, and now I think about it, the page was fairly heavily embellished with various ads for brand name baby consumables. Mmm… I smell a rat.

I thought I was more of the cavewoman mentality, you know, tie the baby on my back with some animal skin, then off we go, not a buggy, changing bag or one of those handled carrier things in sight, but it would appear I’m getting a little sucked in…

Speaking of buggies, I refuse to buy a double, or at least, not just yet. The idea of negotiating my car boot, kerbs, and slimline shop doorways with a weighty monster of hulking travel equipment for two tiny 7.5 pounders is not my bag at all I can tell you.

I’ve secured myself a used but sound and lightweight single buggy with carrycot; they can jolly well share that for a while or take turns between the sling and pram, and when they’re too big I’ve cleverly chosen a model that converts to a single pushchair for those occasional separate outings I’m told are a must for one to one parent child bonding. God I’m good.

I’m not falling for this consumerist pressure before I’ve even met the girls; a good double buggy seems to cost upward of £500, and apparently many twin families repeatedly buy in error not finding the right one until contraption number 3! This way suits me fine, and you can be sure I’ll let you know how I get on. Trouble is, I’ve not heard of anyone else adopting this approach meaning I’m either truly a pioneer, or quite deluded.