Strange and sordid

I've spent the last few evenings so outrageously tired that I was seeing double, and the mornings drinking excessive amounts of orange juice. I'd self-diagnosed with diabetes, but now I think I just happen to be cranky and craving vitamin C. I no longer feel like sitting at a desk to type, but when I lie down on my back, I'm unable to breathe, and I don't yet know how to type on my side. Baby is currently kicking my computer, having spent the entire day pummeling me from the inside, which makes me happy actually, nothing to worry about. I slept better last night (except for strange sordid dreams involving Tom Selleck and fondue), and feel tonight I might not actually lapse into a coma at 9:00. Also it is raining=spring.

I am now reading Doris Lessing's The Good Terrorist. Her books are never actually so enjoyable, and always take me an age to get done, but they're worthwhile and so various. Last night I finished reading Doubting Yourself to the Bone by Thomas Trofimuk, as recommended by Melanie. It was a beautiful, strange book, a poet's book, I think, which might not be everybody's thing, but I liked it, and didn't even get bothered that it was mostly in second person. I think she's right that this is one that leaves you thinking for a while. And now I've got a zillion other books lined up on my to-be-read shelf, and I really ought to step up because my wee kicky baby's due date is just two months away.