As the world and his wife slurp their way through another mulled wine fest and champagne corks whizz past my ears, I figure there aren’t many advantages to being pregnant over Christmas, apart from maybe a seat on the tube. Except, at the moment, I could easily pass for porky rather than preggers so there are no offers forthcoming.
Reticence if one is unsure though is quite understandable. I once made the mistake of offering my seat to a woman who I, wrongly it turned out, guessed to be at least six months pregnant. “No thank you,” she said in a clipped, hurt voice, sucking her indignant stomach in with fury for the rest of the journey.
Oh well. Perhaps Father Christmas will stick a ‘Baby on Board’ badge in my stocking this year then kind commuters can be sure to avoid such faux-pas, while I can be sure of a seat.