Slow. I am slow these days. Slow like a tortoise, slow like an old lady in tartan tweed, trailing a shopping trolley behind her. Slow not like a tourist, dawdling happily to take everything in, but like an ancient dog, painful limbs dragging, tail drooping down, constantly seeking a place to rest.

Thirty-two weeks pregnant is a difficult place to be. I am naturally fast – I walk fast, I think fast, I charge from one task to another, ticking things off and constantly working out what needs done next.  But I can’t be like that now: every time I try to speed up, my hips start protesting, my breath becomes short and I have to call a halt.

Everything is becoming limited: the clothes I can fit into, the range of cupboards I can reach, the things I can do for my wee girl (changing nappies on the floor is a no-no- it takes too long to get back up again). Things that are dropped on the floor must remain there. Even my choice of positions in bed is restricted: I haven’t been able to lie on my back for months, and rolling from one side to another involves time-consuming and complicated manoeuvres with my beloved pregnancy pillow.

I have no choice. All I can do is embrace my new ponderous pace.

So I will try. I will try to see it as an opportunity. What do I miss, usually, as I storm about the world with my head down, full of priorities and plans and pressing agendas? Perhaps there is birdsong. Perhaps there is beauty. Perhaps there are biscuits. For the next few weeks, I shall try to take notice.

Very, very slowly.

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