a way back home before then!
“Um, maybe it was a week?” I hoped that was a believable answer and that she wasn’t expecting me to say five months or anything.
“A week?” she exclaimed, holding onto her stomach as if for support. “I’ve been having them for about ten days now. I could pop at any minute!”
Please don’t. Please .
“Oh well, my next doctor’s appointment is only three days away, so I’ll ask about it then. On second thoughts …” Diora pinched open the e-pad screen and typed something.
“What are you doing?”
“Foogling.”
“What?” I peered towards the screen.
“Foogling. To see what the internet can tell me about Braxton Hicks.”
A shriek of surprise shot from my mouth on seeing the search engine web page. It looked just like the Google logo, only it said Foogle.
“Oh look, three-hundred and forty-seven people on Facebook have been discussing Braxton Hicks in the last hour.” Diora pointed at the screen.
This Braxton guy must be quite popular with young people these days. I wonder if his music’s anything like Ryan’s?
“Braxton Hicks contractions usually last anywhere from a few days to a few weeks before the onset of labour,” Diora read from some website she’d found.
Contractions? Didn’t contractions mean labour? Something told me she wasn’t talking about a pop singer after all.
“And look, this blog tells the story of one woman who didn’t have any Braxton Hicks at all. One day, her water just broke and bam! … Out came baby.”
“Ah, Diora, maybe you should just wait until you see the doctor instead of relying on the internet.” Well, whaddya know. My first piece of solid motherly advice!
“Yeah, you’re right. And we better get walking,” she replied, pushing the screen back into the e-pad and tugging on my arm, both to lead me in the right direction and to balance her weight.
“Diora?” I asked. “Why do they call it Foogle? I’ve forgotten.”
“Seriously? And I thought pregnancy brain had fried my memory,” she said. “Facebook bought Google, remember? So now it’s Foogle.”
“Oh, of course. Geez, the bungy jumping must have messed with my head.” I attempted a light-hearted laugh.
We walked, or rather I walked while Diora waddled, moving at a snail’s pace. Surely a bit of weight around the tummy couldn’t make a person that slow? Getting impatient, I forced myself to walk slower, while inside I was still running around in circles after my bungy jump, not to mention the urgent desire to find a way out of this body.
As I waited for Diora to catch up, my eye caught a large poster displayed in the window of a beauty salon: Take Ten Years Off with our YouthMagic Facial ! It had a before and after photo of a woman about forty, but in the after photo she looked about thirty. Clinically proven to work* it said under the heading and there was some fine print at the bottom but I didn’t bother with that. I pushed through the door and into the salon.
“Mum, what are you doing?” Diora asked, panting slightly.
“I must have one of these facials!” This could be it. I’d close my eyes while the beautician did her magic and when I opened them I’d be twenty five—and it would be much more enjoyable than bungy jumping.
“Mum.” Diora tugged at my arm again and ushered me away from the counter, much to the disappointment of the eager beautician. “I’ve already booked you in for a YouthMagic facial, remember? But not at this dodgy salon, at Queen of Beauty,” she whispered.
“You have?”
“Uh-huh. For all three of us, remember?”
I was sick of people saying remember , but my eagerness for a magic facial overtook my irritation. Hang on. “Three of us?”
I hoped she didn’t mean the unborn baby was having some kind of pre-natal, transabdominal Foetus Facial. But this was the future and after experiencing yolkless eggs, e-pads, PB-whatchamacallit miracle brain scanners and talking self-driving cars–anything was
“Um, maybe it was a week?” I hoped that was a believable answer and that she wasn’t expecting me to say five months or anything.
“A week?” she exclaimed, holding onto her stomach as if for support. “I’ve been having them for about ten days now. I could pop at any minute!”
Please don’t. Please .
“Oh well, my next doctor’s appointment is only three days away, so I’ll ask about it then. On second thoughts …” Diora pinched open the e-pad screen and typed something.
“What are you doing?”
“Foogling.”
“What?” I peered towards the screen.
“Foogling. To see what the internet can tell me about Braxton Hicks.”
A shriek of surprise shot from my mouth on seeing the search engine web page. It looked just like the Google logo, only it said Foogle.
“Oh look, three-hundred and forty-seven people on Facebook have been discussing Braxton Hicks in the last hour.” Diora pointed at the screen.
This Braxton guy must be quite popular with young people these days. I wonder if his music’s anything like Ryan’s?
“Braxton Hicks contractions usually last anywhere from a few days to a few weeks before the onset of labour,” Diora read from some website she’d found.
Contractions? Didn’t contractions mean labour? Something told me she wasn’t talking about a pop singer after all.
“And look, this blog tells the story of one woman who didn’t have any Braxton Hicks at all. One day, her water just broke and bam! … Out came baby.”
“Ah, Diora, maybe you should just wait until you see the doctor instead of relying on the internet.” Well, whaddya know. My first piece of solid motherly advice!
“Yeah, you’re right. And we better get walking,” she replied, pushing the screen back into the e-pad and tugging on my arm, both to lead me in the right direction and to balance her weight.
“Diora?” I asked. “Why do they call it Foogle? I’ve forgotten.”
“Seriously? And I thought pregnancy brain had fried my memory,” she said. “Facebook bought Google, remember? So now it’s Foogle.”
“Oh, of course. Geez, the bungy jumping must have messed with my head.” I attempted a light-hearted laugh.
We walked, or rather I walked while Diora waddled, moving at a snail’s pace. Surely a bit of weight around the tummy couldn’t make a person that slow? Getting impatient, I forced myself to walk slower, while inside I was still running around in circles after my bungy jump, not to mention the urgent desire to find a way out of this body.
As I waited for Diora to catch up, my eye caught a large poster displayed in the window of a beauty salon: Take Ten Years Off with our YouthMagic Facial ! It had a before and after photo of a woman about forty, but in the after photo she looked about thirty. Clinically proven to work* it said under the heading and there was some fine print at the bottom but I didn’t bother with that. I pushed through the door and into the salon.
“Mum, what are you doing?” Diora asked, panting slightly.
“I must have one of these facials!” This could be it. I’d close my eyes while the beautician did her magic and when I opened them I’d be twenty five—and it would be much more enjoyable than bungy jumping.
“Mum.” Diora tugged at my arm again and ushered me away from the counter, much to the disappointment of the eager beautician. “I’ve already booked you in for a YouthMagic facial, remember? But not at this dodgy salon, at Queen of Beauty,” she whispered.
“You have?”
“Uh-huh. For all three of us, remember?”
I was sick of people saying remember , but my eagerness for a magic facial overtook my irritation. Hang on. “Three of us?”
I hoped she didn’t mean the unborn baby was having some kind of pre-natal, transabdominal Foetus Facial. But this was the future and after experiencing yolkless eggs, e-pads, PB-whatchamacallit miracle brain scanners and talking self-driving cars–anything was
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