Morning sickness

I can't wait until my wife doesn't have morning sickness anymore. Apparently it's like being really hungover for three months, except you don't get to have the preceding fun. It sounds rubbish. And it doesn't even necessarily end after three months. We refuse to face up to this possibility.

And I'm no help whatsoever. When my wife feels dizzy, bloated and literally sick and tired, all day, almost every day, the best I can offer in terms of respite are words similar to "Oh. Oh dear. Anything I can do to help? No. Sure? OK. What can I get you? Feeling better yet? No? Oh. Oh dear. I well want a cigarette." This doesn't seem to make her feel much better.

Sometimes I gallantly rush to the nearest shop to stock up magazines and chocolate and other romantic, sympathetic things of that nature. Trouble is, I end up eating most of the chocolate and I resent paying £4.70 for a well-bound collection of adverts for special cream that makes fifty year old women look 49 or something. And, if I display too much of this mainly useless gallantry, then baby might have to do without clothes or cots or nappies. Also, chocolates and magazines are a bit of a cliche. And I like to think I'm too discerning to have married a woman who is easily impressed by cliches.

By the way, none of this is supposed to reflect badly on my wife, who is increasingly my hero. I'm just feeling a bit useless. I wish I had one or more of the following: more imagination when on a spontaneous sympathy shopping trip; magical healing powers; a time machine, enabling us to skip to trimester number two.