So the Duchess of Cambridge is pregnant. After months of tabloid speculation glaring at her non-existent belly, she’s in hospital with wicked bad morning sickness.
To be puking so much you need to be poked, prodded, monitored and medicated? No thanks. But couldn’t they have waited just a *little* bit longer before getting themselves up the royal duff? After all, this will totally steal the thunder of every woman expecting a child in the coming year.
It must have been bad enough to have been getting married at the same time as these limelight magnets. Now, I’m pretty much at the same stage of pregnancy as she (I’m guessing she might be a couple of weeks behind, if the morning sickness has just ramped up), and I’m going to be, to quote my mother in times of dudgeon, nothing more than chopped liver.
So, yay for royal shenanigans. Lord knows, I love a good royal event. But boo to the massive vacuum that is about to envelop every other pregnant woman in the Commonwealth.
We shall stand united as our personally glorious (but generally mundane) reproduction gains nary a whiff of interest from the rest of the world.