So does my bump look big in this?
I had a salutary lesson this week in the dangers of social
media: the message you intend to broadcast is not necessarily the
one people receive.
It all started when a fellow school-mum (who I shouldn't name,
to spare her blushes, but yes, Julia, I do mean you!) sent a
round-robin message to all her female Facebook friends asking them
to post their birthdays, in a secret female-only code - as their
status. It was all part of Breast Cancer Awareness, she explained,
women the world over will be doing it, men won't have a clue what
we're on about, and it will do wonders for world-wide awareness of
this terrible illness.
Well, admittedly, I'd had a couple of glasses at this stage and
it seemed like a bit of a wheeze. I double-checked the secret
code…
I was born in May, so have to write "I'm six weeks." (Had I been
born in October, it would have been "I'm fourteen weeks," - you get
the idea.) Then you post what you're craving, which changes
according to the particular date. So, bold as brass, on my Facebook
status I wrote:
"I'M SIX WEEKS AND CRAVING PEANUT-BUTTER CUPS"
Then I closed down Facebook and went to bed.
Next morning, I wake to find the world thinks I'm pregnant. My
Facebook page is filled with congratulatory messages. I email Julia
in alarm. "Oh yes," she says, "that happened to me too, most people
demanding to know who the father was!" Turns out this secret
women-only code is a bit too secret!!!
Rather bemused, I joke about it on Twitter. 'Appear to have
announced to the world I'm pregnant," I tweet. 'Will I ever
learn?"
Apparently not, because blow me down, if they don't all take it
seriously too! The happy news gets re-tweeted around the globe and
my in-box fills with messages from people who are really happy for
me and determined to advise on what I can and can't do in my
condition!
Blood and sand, you lot! I'm fifty! It would be a minor medical
miracle!
So there I am, in the midst of a phantom pregnancy, really not
sure what to do about it. I mean, where will it all end? Are people
knitting booties as I write?
I could issue an official denial, possibly via Transworld's
publicity office, but given that I'm neither the Duchess of
Cambridge nor Cheryl Cole, I might sound a bit up myself. 'Quietly
let it die down,' advises Mr B, once he's stopped laughing. I'm
tempted, but some people have long memories. Sooner or later, we're
going to meet up and it will take only one well-meant pat on the
stomach and a comment about how I'm blooming and then fur will
fly!
It seems I have no option but to come clean. So, thank you,
everyone, for your good wishes; thank you for being happy for me;
thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for believing, (or
pretending to believe) that such an event is possible, but I'm
afraid the only happy event I'm expecting next spring is the
delivery of a glossy new Bantam Press hardback called DEAD
SCARED.
Note to self: In future, stay off Facebook when you've had a
drink!
The village is having a ball tonight, in the grounds of the
mediaeval manor. We all plan to drink and dance till dawn, which,
in my condition, will be absolutely fine!