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

with me Mum.
     
    Your contemplative daughter,
     
    Laura
     
    xxx

 
     
     
    Jamie’s Blog
    Tuesday 11 June
     
     
    In recent days I have been thinking only of the things I will now never be able to afford, thanks to my inability to control my semen distribution.
    I read a horrifying statistic once – back when I was young, single and didn’t care about such things – that a child costs upwards of £200,000 to bring to adulthood.
    Two hundred grand.
    That’s a three bed semi-detached, people.
    …or a Lamborghini Diablo for the weekends and a second hand Porsche 911 for the drive to work.
    …or several luxury cruises round the world, a year long cocaine binge, and a daily blow job from a high class escort girl for several months.
    I’m not saying I would ever have actually purchased any of these wonderful things, but just the mere fact I no longer can makes me sick.
    I’m trying my hardest to be positive about the pregnancy, I really am. But when your offspring is still a couple of inches of cells inside your wife’s uterus, it’s a little hard to focus on how adorable, intelligent or good at mowing the lawn they are likely to be in years to come.
    All I can dwell on is the downside.
    Mainly the raping my bank account is going to continually endure - but also the fact I’m going to have to take on the responsibility of bringing up a child in this strange, challenging and 18 certificate world.
    If you’ve been reading my blog for a while now, you’ll know that Jamie Newman and considered, thoughtful, adult behaviour are about as far apart as Katie Price’s legs.
    How the hell am I supposed to convince a child that I have anything worthwhile to contribute to their existence?
    Laura is the exact opposite of me, of course. She’s built for this stuff.
    Running your own shop for years builds an innate ability to plan and organise; skills she’s putting into good use with the pregnancy. There must be some German in her family background, as the Teutonic way she’s going about this thing is hair-raising to say the least.
    She’s already booked in the midwife appointments months in advance, can recite the timeline of a pregnancy down to the nanosecond, and has started putting together a birth pack for the trip to the hospital.
    She also likes to regale me with graphic, stomach churning descriptions of what’s happening to her body. It’s putting me off sex good and proper.
    I have a feeling this is deliberate.
    Laura positively glows with all those hormones floating about inside her body, making her look about as sexy as it’s possible to be without a soft focus lens and a Barry White soundtrack. I basically want to fuck her every second she’s awake.
    …actually, scratch that, I’d probably insert my penis into her mouth while she’s sound asleep if I thought I could get away with it.
    The stories about giving birth she likes to terrify and disgust me with (accompanied by the God-awful pictures she’s pulled off the internet) are her way of quelling the Newman horn long enough for her to get on with her day without me hanging off her leg like a rutting hound.
     
    We’re now way past twelve weeks into the pregnancy, which means the threat of miscarriage has diminished considerably. I didn’t even know this until Laura happily announced it a few days ago. The fact that she could have miscarried hadn’t occurred to me.
    …I’m terrible at this, aren’t I?
    It’s customary after that particular milestone to start telling friends and relatives about the newest member of the human population.
    We thought the best way would be to arrange a couple of impromptu get-togethers at our house on consecutive nights – one for friends and one for relatives. Anyone who couldn’t attend would get told via Facebook.
    I can thank Laura’s pregnancy for providing me with the first genuinely useful reason in my life to use the stupid social network.
    It’s very convenient to tell everyone that you’re going to be