“You only want to join for a month?” says the young girl behind the Virgin gym counter, warily eyeing up my rapidly approaching 36 week sized bump. “Yes, just to keep up my swimming,” I tell her. “I think a month is all I’ll be able to squeeze in.” Membership formalities aside and I’m dropping my ball like self gingerly into the pool, while the 20 something lifeguard looks as though he’s weighing up whether he’d actually know what to do in the event of an emergency.
Yes, I’m back home in Northern for the birth of bean number 2, and swimming is my attempt at holding on to some semblance of my normal routine. A chance to keep my sanity when my mind tries to continuously remind me: “Routine? You’ve got to be joking! Be prepared for all that to go completely t*ts up in a few weeks!”