Three years - a baby, two weddings, a new job and yet the potholes haven't changed...

So I have returned to my old company in west London. My cycle commute is once again along the Uxbridge Road and, while many things have changed in the three years since I was last a regular on the road, the potholed hideousness that is the road surface hasn't.

In the summer of 2010 I was at the peak of my cycling. I travelled everywhere by bike, I was the fittest I've ever been, I was just happy. Then breaking my wrist was the first in a chain of lifestyle altering changes. I was sold to another company that was nearly two hours' commute from home under TUPE (boo), I discovered I was pregnant (hooray), my sister got engaged (hooray), my parents moved to France (initially boo, then hooray), I had Eenie (hooray), sister got married (hooray), I got married on the quiet (hooray), I couldn't go back to work (boo), I filled my time helping with a local parents' group (hooray), I got a new job (hooray). And that brings us to now, today.

Suffice to say, much has happened, it's been three bloody years after all, so why the hell is the Uxbridge Road still a pothole addled mess of a road? Muscle memory means I routinely pull round certain stretches of road out of habit and what shocks me is that in many instances the problem spots from three years ago are still a problem now. Why are there routinely 5cm or deeper holes all over the place? Why has no one rectified the hideously bumpy stretch of bus lane just before Shepherd's Bush? Why has no one addressed the melted tarmaccy mess of lumps in the eastbound lead up to the bike box on the junction with Gunnersbury lane?

I can't help noticing that the particularly bad stretch of cycle lane heading west from Ealing Broadway towards west Ealing is dominated by new developments. There are several new office blocks, hotels and residential flat blocks being thrown up on that section and nearly every one of them seems to need the road drilled. That I can understand, but who is responsible for checking the road has been put back in a state befitting its use? I can't use that section as the bumps put me at risk of coming off my bike.

I'd use the A4 off-road cycleway but that's another hideous mess worthy of a post all its own.

I am not impressed. I may, in fact, write to my local paper (oh dear God, I AM that person now)...

I'm a horribly neglectful blogger...

As you can imagine, it's been somewhat difficult to blog for the last few months as I'm not cycling and am knackered all the time. I also have that elusive and mythical problem: babybrain.

I have, in the past, been doubtful that such a phenomenon exists, but it clearly does. I've chatted gaily to people on the bus only to think vaguely as I disembark 'Who on earth was that?', I've put the tea caddy in the fridge and the milk in the cupboard, I've forgotten to send emails then been mystified as to why people aren't aware of plans.

Luckily, my work seems unaffected and I now only have six and a half days left before I'm off on leave.

So what to blog about... Hmmmmm, perhaps what no-one tells you before you get pregnant.

It's 10 months, not nine. It's 40 weeks of waiting and, believe me, it really feels that long when you start to get big!

SPD. This wonderful phenomenon means that if you're a little bit flexible to start with your pelvic ligaments can get too loose. Oh the joy of feeling like you're being kicked in the lady bits every time you get up, sit down, roll over in bed etc etc. Go to your GP, get a physio referral, it's not normal!

The judgment. Wherever you are you are, whatever you're doing, you are being judged, by them. Carrying a Starbucks/Costa cup? Expect those filthy looks to come flying in. Yes, you're allowed some caffeine, yes, you may well have ordered a decaff but they don't care. They care only that they know everything about pregnancy and know that you are naughty for daring to drink that POISON while pregnant. How very dare you.

If you're feeling particularly masochistic, perhaps you could order that small glass of wine when you're in the pub because that's worthy of a couple of horrified gasps generally. I have had about four glasses of wine/champagne over the course of the past five months, my midwife said I could have a glass a week. So nananananaanaaaah.

'You shouldn't be working in your condition!' Oh really? Thanks for the input, but given that the modern economy works on the premise that most women of childbearing age work you can sod off thank you very much. Oh and get up out of the priority seat you lazy and nobular saddo.

Tube blindness. This tragic affliction should not be underestimated. I am now nearly 35 weeks pregnant and the size of a small whale. I have given up asking for a seat, people pretend not to hear or just look at me blankly.

There are people who are fabulous, they block others from rushing into seats and call me over from across the carriage. There are those who, also standing, loudly upbraid their fellow passengers for ignoring me and then there are those who, on seeing the bump, leap to their feet and demand I sit down. Bless them all. If only they weren't outnumbered by tw*ts who look m in the bump and then whip out a Blackberry/iPhone and start tapping away like their lives depended on it. Eyes glued to the screen they hope desperately everyone will think they just haven't seen me. Everyone saw, they share my opinion that you're a nob.

I single out for particular vitriol those who have pushed me into poles, glass partitions and other passengers as they shove me out of the way to get the seat I was aiming for. Bravo people, being that much of an idiot in public takes balls.

The touchers. People are fascinated by pregnancy, hell, so am I. It's pretty damn amazing that my body can build a whole new person. That said, please don't get too excited and PLEASE don't touch the bump unless I know you or you've asked. Friends, family, even acquaintances who have asked nicely, it's fine. Strangers, it's weird, and a bit gross.

Medical students. I've had a few in my time and I'm always happy for them to join in. They have to learn and I'm generally quite chilled out health-wise. However...

When you're fairly new to the whole Doppler thing and you've been poking around for a bit without success, do NOT half-whisper in a panicked tone 'I can't find a heartbeat!' to the midwife. Most first-time mums aren't as chilled out as me, according to the midwives, they might have got a bit upset. Particularly when it was realised that you just weren't poking hard enough.

Anyhoo, rant over, hopefully this'll tide you over for a bit...

Why I love Mr Weenie

Yesterday, Mr Weenie and I went for a walk. We've been attempting to change our usual Sunday routine of pyjamas and toast as I'm now meant to be doing light exercise every day and walking is about my limit.

We went to the shops and were reminded why we get our food shopping delivered. My weird hearing means the ambient noise of other shoppers, freezers etc overwhelms my ears and I turn into a zombified simpleton. I can't hear what Mr Weenie is saying and, as he hates shopping anyway, we always end up miffed and fed up.

On the slow walk home, on which he matched my waddly pace and we ended up walking for what seemed like forever, I saw many cyclists.

The first were laughing over coffee in lycra, four drop-barred bikes chained to the lamppost nearby, clearly having just done a Sunday morning distance run, probably just for fun. I tore my gaze away and we walked on. A couple whizzed by, again on bikes with drops and in long-distance gear, chatting and clearly enjoying the window of non-rain.

I confess, I welled up. I very nearly cried there and then. Forgetting our minor tiff and sweeping me into a cuddle, Mr Weenie asked what on earth was wrong.

I launched into a monologue of love for my two-wheeled companion.

My bike is not just my bike. Reg is the instant mood lifter, the transport that takes me wherever I want to go, when I want to go there, the outlet for my grump when I'm in one and my main source of physical achievement. He's not even in our house at the moment and has been banished to the storage garage as more and more baby things start to accumulate.

I finished, expecting a pat on the head and to be told to stop being ridiculous.

The reply came swiftly: 'Well, let's think about getting you a Brompton then.'

That, my cycling friends, is love.

Tube pluses: You wouldn't get a parrot on a bike

The snow has receded and the air is crisp and clear. The cold means walking involves being bundled up like the Michelin man and the morning commute is full of glum and depressed faces as the realisation that Christmas is over sinks in.

All that breaks the silence of the tube is the chorus of hacking coughs and wet sneezes that spreads through the carriage and reminds you of just how many germs you're in contact with right now.

The highlight of last week was the appearance of a parrot on the tube. Yes, a parrot.

I had climbed aboard the busy train at Farringdon and been pushed aside by a man intent on getting a seat. Thankfully, another one opened up opposite the one he'd found and I sank into it, faffing with my bag as I went. I looked up to glare at the man who'd pushed me and my now considerable belly aside and was stopped mid-look of death by the very uncomfortable expression he was pulling. The cause? The elderly gentleman in a flatcap who was sitting next to him had a parrot on his shoulder.

It was green and very pretty. It sat on his shoulder semi-dozing, attached to its owner via a lead connected to the ring round its ankle. It occasionally glanced around the carriage or readjusted its wings, but seemed utterly unperturbed to be commuting at rush hour on a mass transit system in London.

As we neared Paddington and I attempted not to stare, it began to coo softly then climbed round to its owner's front to nibble his cap. He spoke to it softly, reassuring it that they were nearing their destination. In fact, they got off at Paddington, and I had the joy of walking up the stairs next to them. And I mean joy, bizarre it may have been but the parrot looked healthy and happy and was a welcome splash of colour to my working week.

I'm really missing my bike and with Eenie getting ever heavier, walking is becoming a bit of a chore and commuting is rubbish.

Bring on the parrots.

More bike trailer/seat stuff...

I too am dubious of the trailers if they're on-road as they're low-down and not terribly visible. I have visions of cycling baby through country trails... Sigh.

The under handlebar baby carriers are called Bo bike carriers and I think they're FAB.

I do like Bakfiet ones too (they're the bucket ones) and the Trikidoo is also worth a look. A lady near where I worked in Hammersmith had the Trikidoo and always looked terribly stylish on it.

Bike trailers

Have been ogling bikes and, more specifically, bike trailers.

While Mr Weenie is adamant that Eenie will NOT be making an appearance on a bike/trailer while in infancy, surely there's no harm in looking? Besides, some of them are purely cargo ones...

To my shock, what I've discovered is a huge expensive array of options. For under £200 you can get a rather swanky bright yellow option with five-point harnesses for up to two children.

I've also stumbled across the frankly disturbing idea of 'doggy joggers'. Yes, trailers so that even the most pampered of puppies can avoid getting their paws dirty while still enjoying the scenery.

What I also found was AtoB, a sustainable transport mag that has a fairly comprehensive list of the available trailers.

Enjoy!

Spreading the love on the tube...

This is my favourite time of year for cycling. Dry, crisp, cold and wonderful.

And I'm on the tube. Sigh.

The good news is that Eenie, the cause of my non-cycling commutes, is getting ever bigger. He (and he is a he we've discovered) is enjoying wriggling and kicking and has decided mummy's bladder is a glorious toy to be messed with whenever possible.

He's also getting heavier and, with my dodgy hips, the regular long stands on the tube are getting increasingly uncomfortable. After a week of ligament pain I gave in and decided to try out the TfL 'Baby on board!' badges.

Having approached three separate stations, two of whom had run out, I was handed two brand new shiny badges with not even a cursory glance to check I was, in fact, with child.

I decided to try the badge out on the way home. I forwent it from Herne Hill but, when I hit Farringdon at rush hour, I decided to go for it. I put it on, unzipped my coat to display the belly and stepped aboard the packed carriage. Nothing happened.

Crammed into a corner, no one had seen my badge. Sigh. I was resigned to another painful stand, refusing to ask for a seat in order to give the badge a proper go.

One stop in, a miracle occurred, a girl lunged for a seat but, as she started to sink down she looked up, saw the badge, and blushed. 'I'm so sorry! I've just seen your badge, would you like a seat?' Hurrah!

I thanked her profusely and sat down in relief, my hips were killing me. I thought the joy was over, but no.

Having witnessed this chivalry, the man next to me leapt to his feet and, turning to the lady who'd given her seat to me, exclaimed 'Please have my seat, I don't need it'. When she sat I thanked her again for giving up her seat and she said she was glad I was wearing the badge as she often worried that, especially with winter clothing, she might inadvertently offend someone by offering and the badge swept away that anxiety.

At the next stop a priority seat was left empty. Instead of the usual scrum to grab it, there was a lot of thoughtful looking around before an older lady stepped forward to sit down. I'd like to hope that the generosity showed by fellow commuters had reminded everyone that not everyone can stand.

I'll admit I felt bit awkward and naughty, a bit like I'd emotionally blackmailed the seat out from under another commuter. It was far outweighed by the physical relief of resting my aching pelvis though.

I won't wear the badge every day, but I'll certainly be whipping it out when I feel rough.

Check out those wheels...

We've all done it. That attempt to give a stranger's set of wheels a nonchalant sweep of the eyes. The internal monologue of why your choice is eminently superior, the almost imperceptible nod of approval when it clearly outclasses your purchase.

Yes, I have have pram envy.

We have yet to purchase a contraption but the attitude and technique I perfected for perving on others' bikes has merged seamlessly with my new pregnant status and the brands of Colnago, Pinarello, Dawes and Specialized have been replaced with Maclaren, Quinny, iCandy and the dreaded Bugaboo.

The only thing that now separates me from the others on Mumsnet is my chortles of glee at descriptions of mums and dads going to the local bike shop to get their punctured tyres repaired.

Mwahahahaha

Goodbye house

Today my childhood home is handed over to its new owners.

My parents have owned that house for around 25 years and I have lived in it all of the life I'm able to remember. My dad decided to up their already stretched budget after meeting the headmaster of the local school and deciding this was the man he wanted to oversee his small children's education.

It was FILTHY when we moved in. A wooden parque floor so dirty my dad thought it was plain concrete until they started cleaning it. The back room had housed a large dog, whose wee ad pooled under the carpet and whose paws had ripped the paint off the door.

Backing onto a local park, it was the envy of some of my friends. We were able to grab bikes or just wellies and play where my parents could literally bellow off the balcony that it was time to come in. When locked out, we became expert climbers as we scaled the eight-foot alley gate, hopped the garden fence and braced across the old outside loo roof to ascend to the balcony. The neighbours never worried, 'Is someone breaking in?!', 'No, it's one of the Amazonian women tribe whose forgotten her keys again.'

Over the years mum and dad invested in a loft extension and, more recently, a kitchen extension, to accommodate three rapidly growing girls who turned into grumpy teenagers and then women. One by one we left, my older sister returning briefly after university and then my younger sister and her boyfriend moving in again when dad had the stroke and mum needed support. I moved out the week before my 21st birthday and have not lived there the seven years' since. I never moved for though. While my sisters have lived in Manchester, Norfolk and Walthamstowe between them, I always remained close by. I still live around a mile from that house and have always come home frequently for cups of tea, to reassure moomin that I wasn't killed by the car that hit me last year, to cook for my dad once a week when he was ill (and sneak him out to the pub) and, recently, to tell my parents that they were going to be grandparents.

The local community that sustained us all through various massive upheavals is all around and many are sad that my parents have chosen to leave, but although the house remains, much has changed.

When we moved in the neighbours were mainly older couples who had lived in the area since the war, even when new people moved in we all knew them. I babysat for local children when I got old enough and on Christmas day people would gather to sup champagne in the street together and comment on how big each other's children had got.

With rising property prices and a rebranding of the area as a 'village', the only people who can now afford to buy in my parents' street are those working in banking, whose looking to rip the houses apart and resell them and no one knows who these neighbours are, because they rarely talk to us 'oldies'. The local school that so impressed my father has gone from strength to strength and there are far too many children vying for the spaces that inevitably go to those who can afford to live yards from the gates.

My parents have had their bikes stolen twice in three years, burglaries are on the rise and last week a girl was raped in the park I played in as a child. It's time to leave.

My parents chose a couple with a toddler who are planning to expand their family, in the hope that the house would become a family home once more.

I'm sad that my parents will no longer live round the corner and that Eenie, when he or she comes in April, will never walk round the house I grew up in, but I understand why they sold it. Following dad's stroke it became financially necessary, but it also means a clean break. Their children are adults, and it's about time my parents followed their dream.

Goodbye house, I only hope that the next family likes you as much as we did.

C*ck off!

No, it's not sodding twins.

Yes, I'm aware that the bump is big, I do not need to be told every time you see me.

Oi, tosser, I see you staring at the bump and the chalky complexion of someone feeling ill, I see you're able to stand and in a seat.

Hmmmmm, why would a pregnant lady be lying across a couple of seats looking dazed, could it be she's near to fainting. So why be so f-ing rude?!

Really, I see, you're an expert on all things pregnancy and feel I should be told what to eat and that cycling while pregnant 'is just irresponsible'? Thanks for that.

And, finally, although it's not happened to me yet, but has happened to someone I know and has nearly happened to me a couple of times already:

Do NOT f***ing touch me without my permission.

I don't give a crap that pregnancy is fascinating, my bump is just that, MINE. I live in fear of this happening as I am seriously worried thatI will kill the perpetrator.

Hormonal much?!

My converts live on....

Reg is still at my parents' house so I remain bikeless. There is also another problem. Eeenie weenie does NOT like exercise.

He or she has decided to make me so exhausted I can barely walk home from the station, let alone get on two wheels every day. Stairs render me breathless and t's very irritating. I'm most annoyed because I've always thought that the attitude that pregnant women shouldn't cycle is completely wrong and I was hoping to be a good example. Sigh.

However, while I stew in annoyance over my forced exile onto public transport, I have been greatly cheered by news from those I have or am hoping to convert.

TM is a former colleague (pre-work woes). On mentioning he quite fancied giving cycling to work a go I pointed him firmly in the direction of the Ride to Work scheme and he promptly bought a Brompton. He fell in love with it and, as luck would have it, there was a tube strike shortly after his purchase. He used the LCC bike tube to get to an important meeting in town and hasn't looked back. As well as commuting he recently took part in the Brompton World Championships. Wonderful!

The lovely S trekked out to my new office to say hello on a day off a couple of weeks ago. She's still cycling and is, in fact, encouraging others to do so. In a recent email she gaily told me that she was buying her husband a bike, as he had been inspired by her enthusiasm and fancied giving it a go. Rather than get the bike delivered, she had decided to venture out to an area she'd not been to before to collect said bike and cycle it home. Hurrah!

Moomin has ordered her new bike after the theft of her old one but, not being able to wait, has been using Roger and Reg while they've been stored at her house. My sister, who had an unfortunate accident as a child while on a bike, has also decided to give cycling a go and I have decided to give Roger to her to cycle to vet school and back. Marvellous!

I'm aiming to cycle to music school with my sister on Saturday if Eenie is amenable but even if I can't it makes me glow to know there are cyclists in London enjoying bikes and that I, in a small way, encouraged or helped them to do it. Sigh.

Apologies for my absence...

A heavy cold and stressful work mean I haven't been around much. I also have another excuse up my sleeve.

An Eenie Weenie is expected in April. Yes, I'm pregnant.

Having always said I would cycle if I got pregnant and I have been, but the sheer knackeredness and weird pain in my legs have rendered it impossible most days this week.

Mr Weenie is broadly supportive but has conditions. I must avoid main roads, not cycle at night and I have to stop if the medics advise me to.

Luckily, midwife and GP think cycling's great and are happy for me to continue, I just wish Eenie would allow me to get on with it instead of sapping my energy and demanding food at really inconvenient times.

Fingers crossed it'll get better!