Getting ready for the Lilleys' wedding party tonight was quite traumatic. Most of my cute, tight cocktail dresses now make me look like a burst cocktail sausage.
I tried on each one in turn, parading them in front of Pete, demanding that he be honest and throwing a strop when he was.
Eventually we found a winner. "Yes, that's the one!" said Pete, as I twirled around in the black chiffon number. "That dress doesn't make you look pregnant, just fat!"
Some other words were then exchanged.
Reminds me of the other day, when I was gratefully complimenting Pete on how lovely he's been when it comes to looking after me and making sure I have everything I need.
"Well, I know that as long as you're warm, fed and and not in any distress, you're fine," said Pete. "It's a bit like having a horse, really."
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