Pink Stinks

My mum and sister were excitedly showing me a pink wooden pram advertised in a woman's magazine. "Divine," they cooed.

I raised my eyebrows, wrinkled my nose and turned my mouth up at the corners.

"You're going to have a funny kind of girl," declared the little sis.

When pregnant the only thing putting me off having a girl was indeed the colour pink. It was the visit to Mothercare that did it. (About two weeks before I was due; I believe in leaving everything to the last minute). I felt physically sick. I stood in the middle of Oxford Street on the phone to C. hysterically voicing my concerns should we have a girl; I would not be able to cope with all things pink.

With the exception of a couple of far-flung great aunts the message, shouted loud and clear at every opportunity, seems to have filtered through. No-one who has been in actual contact with me since Isabella's birth has bought us anything pink. My brother went so far as to use a lack of choice as his excuse for visiting empty-handed and a friend kindly wrapped her present in blue paper.

"Pink stinks," giggled my my mum. "I said to your father 'I bet Emma's got something to do with this'". I had to admit I didn't know what she was talking about.

A quick look on the internet had me rejoicing (and only slightly sad that I wasn't behind it): Pink officially stinks here.