Read Love... And Sleepless Nights MAY 2012 for Free Online Page B

wondering what they were up to.
    I went into Saturday night in a positive frame of mind.
    Ha!
    More fool me.
    It’s not that I don’t like my husband’s family, it’s just that I sometimes feel decidedly ganged-up on when Jamie and I are at odds. If I had you, my useless dad, or any of the aforementioned bathroom hogging siblings to back me up it might not be so bad.
     
    …oh, and on the subject of my shitbag of a father, I spent a fairly unpleasant hour the other night talking to Jamie about whether we should contact him to let him know he’s going to be a grandfather. The last I’d heard he was still in
India
somewhere – probably
Goa
– wearing a kaftan and smoking his own body weight in cannabis.
    Even if I did want to tell him, the chances of getting hold of the feckless idiot are slim to none.
    Jamie was dead set against it anyway. ‘All he’ll do is tell you to call it Moonbeam Sunrise or some other hippy shit, and ask if he can borrow £500 to fix his motorbike.’
    He’s probably right. It would have been nice to have a father who is actually an adult, but we can’t always get what we want - as Mick Jagger insists on telling us.
     
    You’re the one I really miss being here Mum, that goes without saying.
    Every time I remember I won’t be able to show you your new grandchild it makes me blub like a school girl. It’s all these bloody hormones. I seem to cry at the drop of a hat these days.
    I’m even starting to fill up now as I write this diary entry. It’s quite pathetic.
    Still, getting a few wet spots on a diary page is far better than breaking down in front of your husband’s relatives, which is what happened on Saturday.
    Jamie doesn’t have a huge family, but he’s got two more parents and two more siblings than me, so we’ll call that a win for his side.
    I get on pretty well with Jamie’s sister Sarah and brother Chris. I would get on better with his dad Michael if it weren’t for the fact he looks at my tits whenever he gets the chance.
    The relationship I have with his mother Jane has always been a bit distant, but tonight showed me there was more bubbling under the surface than I realised.
     
    As on Friday, we elected to keep the surprise on hold until about
nine o’clock
. I cooked a spaghetti bolognaise for all of us (I don’t let Jamie near the kitchen if I can help it - and we certainly never have fajitas if I do) which I took my time over to impress the in-laws.
    Thankfully Jane isn’t a particularly good cook herself. I once found three dog hairs in one of her casseroles.
     
    Side note: Does anybody actually like casserole? I’ve never come across anyone who does. I mean, what is it exactly? Really, really thick soup? Only that’s broth isn’t it? Either that or it’s a runny roast dinner. As far as I’m concerned you can tart the bugger up as much as you like with sprigs of coriander and mint, it’s still going to look like dog sick in a bowl when you get right down to it.
     
    Anyway, back to the point.
    The bolognaise went down well. Even Jane polished off her entire plate, which amazed me.
    No-one seemed to notice I wasn’t filling my glass from the bottles of white we’d opened for the occasion. I’d just surreptitiously leave the dining room every half an hour or so to recharge my glass with a carefully concealed bottle of Appletiser.
    I wasn’t feeling the excitement of a withheld secret like the previous night, and I could tell Jamie was more nervous about revealing the existence of the baby as well. Telling your mates is one thing, letting your family know – the people whose opinions really matter in the grand scheme of things – is entirely another.
    By nine, the atmosphere in the room was decidedly convivial.
    Michael had told his third golden anecdote of the evening to a chorus of polite laughter, Jane had bored everyone with how much she was loving her new gym and how her instructor was really helping with her thighs, Chris had successfully