THE NEW AUTUMN / WINTER COLLECTION 52 Cliffe High St . <strong>Lewes</strong> . 01273 471893 www.barracloughs.net Barracloughs the Opticians <strong>Lewes</strong> are proud to incorporate FIND YOUR FEET PODIATRY & CHIROPODY - Fungal Nail advice - Diabetic Foot - Rheumatology - Wound care - Nail Surgery - Nail Cutting - Corn & Callus removal - In-growing Toenails - Verrucae - Biomechanics 52 Cliffe High Street . <strong>Lewes</strong> . 01273 471893 www.fyfpc.co.uk
COLUMN Chloë King Totally wired By the time you read this I will be giving, or have given, or be about to give birth to my second child. How about that for a bombshell? A pregnant woman with a magazine column that, previous sentence excepted, hasn’t mentioned in that column that she is a pregnant woman! I assume it will surprise because at 37 weeks I'm still meeting people on the High St who say delightedly, “I didn’t know you were expecting!” I do wonder why this comment is always prefixed by “I didn’t know”. I expect it’s a linguistic development popularised since the advent of social media. Before Facebook, one wouldn’t expect to have up-to-date knowledge about another person’s life unless said person was someone you occasionally telephoned, invited for a drink, or had essentially been present with in conversation at some point over the last few months. Now, and I too am guilty of this, we often imagine that we have made personal contact with a dear friend just because we have followed their ‘status’ online. Unfortunately, it’s just not the same. You see, I haven’t been keeping it secret that I am pregnant, I just haven’t posted about my condition online. Either way, it should be glaringly obvious to anyone who knows me well because I’m not stood outside the <strong>Lewes</strong> Arms with a pint of Harvey’s and a roll-up in hand. I chose not to tweet about it because I’m becoming increasingly concerned about the untested consequences of children’s lives being documented online. That, and the pressure which we’re all under for our circumstances to measure up to a perfectly edited version of those of our peers. I’ve also learnt, as someone prone to coming up with ambitious action plans, shouting about them and then sitting down, that the kind interest of friends and acquaintances can become a tyranny of having to forever answer the question “have you done x yet?”. Keeping my news on the down-low is unlikely to prevent the upsurge in “have you popped yet?” that occurs as one enters the gym ball stage of pregnancy, but it has limited a substantial number of conversations about my intimate bodily functions. Speaking of which, I went to yoga for the first time last night. (There’s something else I bet you didn’t know, that there was, until yesterday, a single surviving female member of the gentrified <strong>Lewes</strong> community who had not yet tried yoga). If any reader is feeling cheated about my lack of pregnancy-related gossip, I can now happily reveal that I discovered three things at my LushTums antenatal yoga class. One, that Mum was right: it really is hard not to fart in balasana pose. Two: that, aside from the risk of farting among strangers, yoga is genuinely an extremely pleasurable thing to do. And three, I am personally so unused to purposeful relaxation that even after a large slice of Waitrose meat pie; a ninety-minute yoga session; a Radox bath and a 30-minute hypnotic download, I still felt totally wired. Illustration by Chloë King 33