‘Look — watermelon! Looks like your belly!’ When the woman, who is ringing up your feta cheese and oregano crisps in the Aphrodite supermarket in Corfu is pointing out how outrageously big your third trimester pregnancy bump is, there comes a point when you just have to smile weakly and meekly agree. The watermelon is indeed oval, pointy and even in its sun-drenched, juicy, ripe state probably not quite equivalent to the weight I’ve put on. She means well though. Her daughter apparently just gave birth a week ago. She knows the end is nigh, hence why likening bellies to giant fruit becomes fair game. Incidentally, hacking into the watermelon is now giving me nightmarish visions of C-section surgery. I can’t bring myself to eat it.
Throughout this entire second pregnancy, due to it showing far earlier than my first (which was to be expected) and that technically yes, the shape is more bulbous and pronounced this time round, it has invited a whole host of commentary that while harmless in its intention, cumulatively wears me down.
