We were staying with some friends for the weekend last week. When I got into bed on Friday night, my heart started pounding in my chest. But it wasn't pounding regularly - it was doing strong beats, then weak little beatlets, going like the clappers and then slowing right down. It was very odd.
The next night, it happened again. Maybe I should be worried. I got Mr Meep to get his laptop out and Google 'heart palpitations in pregnancy'. He said it seemed to be fairly common. So I put it to the back of my mind and went to sleep, despite the little drummer boy putting on a full performance under my left breast.
All week, it's kept on happening. Mostly in the evenings, but sometimes in the daytime too. I've felt fine otherwise, so I didn't worry too much about it.
Last night, I met some friends for a drink in the world's cosiest bar. After and hour of chatting and drinking tea, the old ticker started playing up again. I ignored it and carried on with the evening. Got home and it was still going on. While I was tucking into my jacket potato, I thought it was going to jump out of my shirt and join the spud on the plate.
It usually only lasts for an hour or so. By now, it had been four hours. Mr Meep decided it was time for action and insisted that I phone NHS Direct. A nice lady asked me lots of questions, like was I turning blue and was my speech slurred (they weren't). Then, calmly, but with an underlying sense of urgency and slight hysteria, she told me to get to casualty quick smart.
I don't like a fuss. I asked Mr Meep if we could just wait until morning. I pretended it was getting better. He was having none of it and marched me to the car and drove me to the hospital.
At A&E I was expecting a long wait in a room full of office Christmas party casualties covered in blood and party popper streamers. I got to the reception, told them what the problem was and was whizzed off to the trolley bay straight away. Before I knew it, my clothes were being removed and I was covered in padded stickers and wires and all kinds of paraphenalia.
They switched on the heart monitor. It didn't look good. It looked like a graph depicting the highs and lows of an episode of Eastenders. At some points, it was flatlining for a second, setting all kind of bleeps and beeps off.
Next up, the ECG machine was wheeled over and did a lovely artistic depiction of my wonky heart rhythms. "Well, that is definitely not normal," said the nurse and disappeared behind the curtain (they were themed curtains, depicting the hospitals of Cardiff and the Cardiff City FC shield).
Next came the doctor, who asked me more questions about heart history and breathlessness, then disappeared behind the special curtain to summon the cardiologist.
Although I am normally quite chilled out, by this point I was getting a tad worried. And so was my heart, judging by the monitor, which sounded like it was composing a new mobile ring tone.
Two hours and some blood tests later, the doctor returned. He concluded that yes, my heart is abnormal, but pregnancy does funny things to your body. As I don't have any other symptoms, it's nothing to worry about, so off I went.
So that was the end of that little drama.
This morning, I just got a big fat rejection for a writing contract that I was interviewed for on Monday. As usual, they said I had excellent writing skills, good interpersonal skills and obvious enthusiasm - so why didn't I bloody get it then? I don't know, sometimes, life is a bit rubbish.
Merry Christmas, one and all!