Yes, I was an Olympic cynic...

...but I bloody love the Olympics. 

London, GBR, Ennis, the cyclists, the rowers, Danny Boyle's opening ceremony – just superb. GO GBR! 

I am immensely proud.

Sleeping like a baby...

When people who knew about my history of clinical insomnia found out I was pregnant, a few said, hey, at least I knew what it was like to be sleep deprived, and wasn't that funny? Ha ha. How I laughed till I peed my pants. Yes, lucky me. I had yet more sleepless nights ahead – something we all look forward to, don't we? (Don't get me wrong, I hated having sleep problems but the only thing worth baggy eyes, saggy skin and a brain that feels like a bath of mud is sleeplessness due to caring for one's child; at least that made sense). 

But anyway... Not only had I had years of poor sleep, which was horrendous, but I also became ill with obstetric cholestasis (OC), which became apparent about seven months into my pregnancy. Toxins race around your body, giving you blotchy, itchy skin that feels it is home to crawling insects. Lovely. You feel utterly bereft of energy; every step you take is heavy. Your unborn baby is at risk of stillbirth and you are at risk of serious haemorrhaging (the advice is to deliver early, which I did, via an elective caesarean section. Not much is known about the curious condition OC, but they tend to pick it up now (well, my utterly fantastic midwife did), and it is monitored daily at hospital with blood tests and foetal heart monitoring (and research is underway). And trust me, it takes away any glow that pregnancy might bestow.  

One of the symptoms of obstetric cholestasis is that you can't sleep. At all. All night. So, not only was I knackered from working my backside off while non self-employed women would have started maternity leave, but I was afflicted by this strange illness, which was also stressful due to the risks – and the prospect of major surgery (no, a caesarean is not the easy option, grrrrr). The 'sleep now, you'll be grateful later' made me want to shriek that it wasn't that bloody easy. When you are pregnant (and healthy), sleeping comfortably isn't especially easy. (And then, the intensely frustrating 'sleep when the baby sleeps' advice that was trotted out by some well meaning but some smug people, drove me mad. When else are you supposed to get anything done? Eh? Get a doula? For a year? Are you mad?) 

Sleep has, therefore, evaded me over the years for various reasons. Things are far better now, as I was told they would be. L was a pretty good sleeper from 13 weeks, which was a boon, but night feeds and dream feeds had to be done and it took me a long time to catch up with myself, having carried such a massive deficit. 

On reflection, it took me 18 months – sleep aside – to feel anything like back to 'normal' again, and it is something that other mothers admitted to experiencing, too, once I revealed this little confession. Why do so many of us keep such information hidden? Surely the solidarity of a problem shared, or at least empathised with, helps? It seems that mothers are judged so often by others – the got-it-sorted-never-stressed Stepford types, as well as clueless fools who think full-time mothers sit at home painting their toenails while salivating over Jeremy Kyle – that they cannot say it how it is. I am sure that some mothers feel great after two weeks and have hormones that disappear with the placenta, but those types usually have plenty of help (possibly a nanny), few financial worries and no health issues, or have a child that doesn't – dare I say it – get the attention it deserves because mummy's me-time is pretty much all-the-time. 

I still grind my teeth – bruxism – at night and have shattered my molars so badly over years of doing this that I now need expensive (even on the NHS!) crowns put on my teeth. I also, perhaps bizarrely, like to stay up late: it's my time to relax and write and do nothing, just for a little while. Stupidly, my brain hasn't quite got its synapses around the fact that L will, whatever I do, wake too early for me to also wake feeling replete with zzzs... But matters are in my hands, which helps a lot. Though L no longer naps in the day, which used to give me time for a massively useful power nap (for me) if we'd been up in the night, I can still try to go to bed earlier... It sounds so obvious, but if the world is grouped into night birds and larks, I am a big, fat, fluffy owl. 

Everybody – wave your flags and feel united!

There are Union Jack flags everywhere: on products sold in Ikea, Marks and Spencer, Poundland, Waitrose, House of Fraser... every shop has something to offer. Shop awnings, street furniture, my front room... all are festooned with the red, white and blue.

Strangely, my Victorian home looks even older with the small doubled row of bunting that is tied to the top of the window (safe from little hands). It feels more, er, Victorian... OK, so I know we are about to celebrate an Elizabethan event (followed by the European football and London Olympics), but the flag flying so freely feels like something has been reeled in from the past. I suppose part of the reason is that the Union Jack was hijacked so successfully by nationalists and racists not so many years ago; yes, it is good to see it being flown for the right reasons again (though there are obviously still pockets where it is flown for dubious significance).

I'm not a royalist and I'm not a republican but I am quite patriotic. I remember the 1977 Silver Jubilee (yes, I am that old) – I was an excited schoolgirl at the time and I had a commemorative mug and everything. Perhaps we did have all the other paraphernalia around then, too. L says 'Jubilee!' every time she sees a Union Jack, and she is thrilled that 'we are going to the Jubilee'. She knows it is all to do with the Queen, and wants to wear a crown herself. 

There are hundreds of celebratory events on locally this coming weekend – parties, picnics, street events, concerts and private functions in people's homes. There is, of course, the Thames Diamond Jubilee Pageant, which will involve more than 1,000 boats traversing London's beautiful and powerful river. I don't know about L, but I am ridiculously eager to witness it. This old winding river, around which this massive, diverse, intense, green, strong, characterful, inspiring, cultured city has grown, is surely a fitting focus for the Diamond Jubilee. Of course, living a five minute walk away from its leafy banks (and having worked and socialised near it for many years in the past) may have something to do with my love for the Thames. Let's raise a glass of Pimm's, dispense with any cynicism, and wholeheartedly enjoy!

Those days

This is one of them. I wish I still did martial arts on days like this. I miss it. 

Rain, rain... Come again?

The weather in April last year was blistering (for me with my ridiculously sun-sensitive skin, anyway). It was the "hottest April" since Neanderthal man walked the Earth, apparently. And this year's April was the wettest.  

We are already being warned about standpipes by summer if the ongoing rain ceases to bucket down, as it has for the past month (since the drought was announced in fact).

Hmmm. I know it's a bit passé to go on about the weather, but what is going on?

Children See, Children Do

I encountered this video by NAPCAN, an Australian organisation, while researching some extremely interesting stuff for work I'm doing on families and branding. It makes for striking viewing and illustrates how influential parents are on their offspring. 

While I steer clear of all but one of these traits, I'm afraid I sometimes turn into the screaming woman in the car. I feel like crying. It's a dreadful potential legacy, and I don't want L to inherit it. I feel ashamed.

Helping the butterfly to unfold...

There are blossoms scattered where I wheeled L in her pushchair this afternoon. The sky was slate grey, water dripped off her rain cover (and from my hood) and she wanted to get home. I did, too, and was in a tired, rain-induced grump. I gave her a cluster of white blossom to hold and she put one in her mouth, declaring she'd eaten one (she hadn't). She said she was hungry. Then she wasn't. She was cross, then not. You get the picture. But there is now far more going on than predictable toddler contradictoriness. I can see that L is pushing boundaries and watching with sparkling alertness in her dancing eyes to see how I react to some of the things she says (or whispers, if they are cheeky). I am going to take it as a huge compliment that she – according to psychological theory – feels sufficiently secure at the age of just two and a half to do this. Itisgooditisgooditisgood. 

I look at L and see the steady gaze that meets mine, as it could be in its teenage version, and feel the pressure on me to get it right, NOW. It all feels suddenly pivotal. I vow to not lose my cool, and to be firm and try to understand what she's going through, no matter what, because, even though she can explain certain things, some of her feelings and needs are at the mercy of a lack of words and meaning. The finessing of language has yet to emerge... goodness knows, I have encountered grown men and women who lack some children's level of emotional articulacy. L says things, as of today it seems, simply to see what effect they have on Mummy. This is not toddler tantrum stuff; it is something that is new, and as the lying down and shouting fades in frequency (yes, her, not me, though it is sorely tempting at times), I suspect that this 'head' stuff will increase and call on my brain and heart in equal measure.

I want to show L that I mean business, can guide her, and am a strong (if sometimes flawed) role model capable of loving and nurturing through anything and everything. I'm not into the my child = my friend lark. I have chosen my friends to be my friends; I want L to have friends and to have me as more than just a friend, if I'm honest. A friendly mum, but a mum. It is a huge responsibility. Shoulder-crackingly massive. Crumbs. 

April showers (and drought, obviously)...

A very high tide © Mellifluous Dark

There has been talk of drought in these here parts. And, since the hosepipe ban that started at the beginning of April, it has rained and showered and been sharply sunny in London. We have had thunder, lightning, hail, pelting rain, drizzle, sunshine, wind, stillness, blue skies, soft breezes and blankets of grey cloud – all in the space of two days. L has had a crash course in British weather; happily, she is fascinated by storms, as am I. There is nothing quite like the majesty of a dark grey cloud that comes hurtling across the sky to make you remember that we are just the equivalent of little ants on this planet. Thunderstorms and the sea quickly convey our vulnerability and create (in me at any rate) a longing for tea and hot, buttered toast, or full-bodied red wine depending on the time of day. Oh, and let's not forget the Thames, which is a short distance from where I sit. Soon, the tide will be high; it will destroy unwary car-parkers, seep through some doorways and cut off roads and pathways. The spring tides are quite dramatic and strangely hypnotic – you just stare and stare at the water swelling and creeping higher. Only a fool would underestimate the strength and quiet power of this winding river. It is not a safe place for a quick dip.

(Pic: guardian.co.uk)

I recall the drought of 1976 though I was but a youngster at primary school. Normally damp southern English earth was covered in cracks like the patterns on a giraffe. The heat was searing. My mum took a trip to South America to visit some of our family and dad painted the outside of the garage, his skin growing darker by the hour. It was hotter, on occasion, back here. The plants were dehyrated and water was reserved for drinking, washing dishes and clothes, and bathing. This year's drought, so far, sees a perfect concoction of a fledgling plant's needs met, what with the sun and water alternating that makes getting ready in the morning confusing – and even more time consuming.

The changeability of British weather – where I live, at any rate – gives me an excuse for my dozens of pairs of shoes and boots, my many coats and clothes for all seasons that bulge in a minimalist's nightmare of a wardrobe. Who are these people who can be so confident of the seasons in England that they manage to vacuum pack their winter/summer clothes away once the relevant season has supposedly passed? I've given up my longing for a capsule wardrobe. Why introduce more stress into your life? It's fun to have to take an umbrella and coat, and wear at least five layers in case the weather changes. Isn't it? L has several little coats and jackets piled on to the banister, and a small selection of footwear of varying permeability. Even if it is fiercely sunny, I'll shove a waterproof thing in my bag, because, well, who am I to know, eh? All those summer days where people have gone to work wearing flip-flops and come home with stains where the rain has bled the dye and washed their feet with London pavement water, just wouldn't be the same (just one of many reasons why flip-flops should be banned on the commute to work/at work). And, what on earth would we talk about? The economy? Nah. Too predictable by half (or three-and-a-half per cent – if we want to bring inflation into it!).

Discombobulation and peace

There have been things on my mind, so awful I will not go into them here. I want them to go. They should have no place in anyone's life. They will go.

My darling dad, wise in ways I can only dream of being, spoke to me today due to his concern over my concerns, and I feel different – better – as a result. He said his dad used to sit him down and speak to him in a similar way.

I hope one day to evoke such feelings in my child (though I wish for her to not go through these particular things that touched my life). I hope therefore that she never worries me in the way that I have those who love me...

Sorry, this is a tad indecipherable unless you are in my head (or are my dad), but so be it. Here's to wisdom and love.

Though this post is about my dad, thanks also to you who have also been there for me. You know who you are. You do make a difference.

Olympic effort

Is it wrong that I am not in the slightest excited about the Olympics? With each flash of the digital Olympic countdown clock, my sigh deepens, my eyes roll that bit more dramatically and eventually I glaze over. Or feel slightly annoyed. 

I feel bad about this negativity but I am fed up when leaflets come through the door telling me I won't be able to go here and there, and am expected to not use the bloody transport system in case visitors want to travel in July/August, in my home town. (To make myself feel a bit better, I'll go to one of the free events, just so my child can witness history or whatever, partly because we'll be trapped where we live for a few days and won't be able to go anywhere.) I want to feel elated, excited and eager but it all seems so removed from me (apart from the 'you must not go here/there' stuff), that I struggle to feel genuinely moved.

What troubles me most is the amount of money we have thrown at this event, and continue to throw at it. Billions of pounds at a time where I am in the red on the second of the month, where people talk of child poverty, where we are being screwed with tax and VAT, and no pay rises. We have one child because a) we can't afford a bigger place to live,  b) we work for a living (rather than depend on the state) – and living is f*cking hard at the moment – for many people, and c) April sees a raft of bills come in and I am juggling like crazy to ensure the fridge is stocked, the car legal, the amenities paid for, etc etc etc.  

The whole "it will be an investment for the future" also riles me. Where is the extra money coming from – the cash that will have to manifest to turn the Olympic Village into habitable homes? Who will buy these homes? Who will give them mortgages? Who will cycle in the velodrome? No – wait – that's being converted at a cost of, er, how much, into... what exactly? Why do the executives have to stay in hotels on Park Lane? 

I am a proud Briton and a passionate Londoner, and I value human endeavour and achievement; none of my moaning here is anything to do with that. Please let us win more gold than ever. Please. I was happy when we won the bid – I walked around Trafalgar Square with a good friend on the evening July 6 that year. The wind blew the ticker tape that was left on the ground from the celebrations and we were both smiling and excited as the sun faded from the sky. (The next day was 7/7.) 

Methinks the emperor's new clothes are so shiny, so shimmery and glitzy, that they have blinded many to the cost of this relatively short sporting event. Is anyone holding the purse strings? Are there any strings on the purse? I bloody doubt it. The original budget was £2.4 billion. It is now forecast to be £24 billion. 

SIGH...

Eye, eye...

This is not me...

When I can be bothered (and have enough time) to do my eye make-up well – nothing too ambitious, just a slick of liquid eyeliner on the top lash – people treat me differently. Not that they generally run screaming or anything, but I've had better than normal service, no-questions-asked refunds, a freebie thrown in here and there, and stuff of that ilk.

It could be that on those days that I have the eye thing working, I'm generally in less of a rush, probably have on clothes not stained with food, am wearing something other than my somewhat too-tight TopShop jeans (bought before motherhood) that have literally worn through at the knee, and have bothered to do something with my hair other than shove it into a broken butterfly clip (yes, I know I am too old for such a thing, but at least it's not a scrunchie, OK?).

I spent today looking after my young daughter after a maddeningly rubbish night's sleep due to drinking one small bottle of cheap beer... I worked last night and I have been working all evening (proofreading a complicated legal magazine), too. Little L has a couple of molars breaking through, so has been calling out for attention and pain relief, poor thing. My eyes are baggy; I've rubbed them due to tiredness and the start of the hayfever season. The mascara (why did I bother? Am I completely mad?) has served to do nothing but enhance the dark half-moons beneath my eyes. Today was not a liquid eyeliner today. I hope tomorrow will be...

For those who wish to learn how best to perfect that upper line, such as the one pictured above, this YouTube demo might help. I use Chanel liquid eyeliner in black, which has a fine brush; I think it gives a cleaner line than a pencil. I remove any mistakes with the tip of a slightly moistened cotton bud.

McQueue

There were dozens of cars snaking back to block the exit from a reasonably large roundabout near me yesterday afternoon. Not for petrol, but McDonald's. People must have sat there burning their precious fuel for half an hour or longer to get their hands on 'fast' food. Crazy.

Oh, I filled my car with petrol yesterday, as we teetered on 'E'. Frightening stuff (cost, queues, desperation among drivers, and yes – environmental issues). We really do need to come up with an alternative to diesel and petrol – and actually use it. For SO many reasons. (And, no, I don't have enough hours in the day to walk and/or take the bus everywhere...)

Petrol insanity

What idiot suggested the entire world queues for petrol? 

Not only has it sparked panic buying at the pumps, but people are also stockpiling food. I think. It could just be that after queueing for ages to get into the car park at Tesco (other supermarkets are available), they can't bear the thought of facing the same, or worse, a few days hence. Drought. Petrol shortage. What next – a recession? Oh...

Bladder control?

What is it about the proximity to one's home making you want to pee with exponential effect, with each step you make towards it when returning from elsewhere? And the bloody key is never in the most obvious corner of your bag or pocket, is it? 

When you have a pushchair to bring inside, a toddler to de-shoe (pale carpets) and de-coat, well, it's a miracle the mad squirming dance works for long enough to keep the carpets dry. (Oh, and this is nowt to do with post-childbirth, unless S, too, has grown a womb and had offspring.)

So soon we're too old to carry...

This is a fine song by the Maccabees (here are the lyrics). I've posted this particular link to the video, as it has no adverts. It makes S melt. A bit like the John Lewis advert from a couple of years ago for me that shows a baby girl growing older (though the Maccabees does elicit similar feelings). And yes, I know it's sad to be moved by an advert, but there you go. 

However, this beauty is in a different league. I struggle to get through it: 

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true,

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

William Butler Yeats

These dreams go on when I open my eyes...

It's not the best start to a day when you have had a bad dream and the feelings stay with you, throbbing at the limits of your memory and leaving you with the mental equivalent of having swallowed unexpected bile. It's particularly annoying, as, let's face it, who recalls their dreams accurately? Usually, all you get is (in my case, what with the teeth-grinding fun): a headache, neck pain, nagging feelings of doubt and doom, and possibly suspicion of those around you, if the protagonist was one of your nearest and dearest, or a colleague (this latter scenario is especially strange). I've had some intensely bizarre and bizarrely intense dream action involving various family and friends (and, ok, people I can't stand) over the years.

Despite being an adult, or trying to be, I still cannot quite traverse that line between the subconscious splatterings of my untidy sleeping mind and the clear thoughts of daytime (in theory, in theory...). I recall going to work one morning many years ago, convinced that a chap called Yann was about to randomly get up from his manky black office chair, whirl around in the middle of the newsroom, making his cloak appear as he did so, and cast terrible spells on us, having turned into a wizard or something of that ilk. I stared at him all day. Then there are the dreams of planes crashing. Those aren't so good when you live nearish to the flight path of one of London's busiest airports. Hmm.

One thing I have noticed is that if I sleep on my back, with my hands on my stomach or chest, I always have a bad dream. The good thing is that by lying that way, I usually fall asleep within minutes (take that, insomnia, you fool!), but the sacrifice I make is that I'll be awake – with a jolt – once I get into REM sleep (something that insomnia took from me, making me slightly crazed). What to do? How should I lie down? I can't lie on my stomach, which is my preferred sleeping position, as I have lower back pain at present and the twist in my spine if I am on my front hurts rather a lot. On to my back it is. Oh dear.

About time a boy grew up

Oh dear, Hugh Grant. You idiot. You may want to keep your feelings about your daughter, Tabitha, private. Perhaps you are too reserved to gush about your offspring, or anything apart from phone hacking. But to tell the world that you 'like' her very much? Like?! Oh, grow up.


Things to like very much...

Like some double-fried chips and mayo?

Blooming likeable

For chocolate lovers, er, likers...

Happy Mother's Day

Call it commercial, call it what you will, but Mother's Day is a wonderful opportunity for children of all ages to show they love their mums and to express gratitude. A homemade card costs nothing. Breakfast in bed is fairly easy to accomplish (though there does have to be another adult on hand to help, which I realise is not the case for everyone).

I saw a post on Facebook today by someone saying they didn't need Mother's Day to remember their much-loved (and now deceased) mother. I take her point, and I can see where she's coming from, but marking the day doesn't – shouldn't – take away from the love and consideration that people show during the rest of the year. My small daughter's card and gifts (which included a relaxed day out) were organised by her thoughtful dad, S, but she was excited in her own right and wanted to know where I had put my card, and she grinned as she wished me "happy mother day". Priceless. Most days, she is the catalyst for many parental smiles.

No, we don't "need a special day" to appreciate our mothers (and if we do, well, we're pathetic)... but surely it is a positive thing for the woman who has given birth (or adopted) and their offspring to reflect on this unique relationship. None will be perfect, goodness knows, but most of us (children and parents) do our best and a little show of "You're OK, Mum" can help to negate the nagging doubts that sadly permeate many mothers' minds, as we are instructed: THIS is right, THAT is wrong, you MUST follow this book and blah blah blah. Enough of all the right way/wrong way claptrap, please. Just for one day. Or, on second thought, how about every day?

How does my north-facing garden grow?

The back garden faces north. This means the plants that do thrive go a bit mad, like Katie Price when she discovered what silicone could do. They overshadow all the little plants I have ever planted as borders, which end up possibly feeling a bit like Katie's belly button, knees and feet: ignored (and rather small).

Anyway, the woman at Homebase told me what I could plant in a somewhat shady garden, which to be fair, does get sunshine, but not during the hottest part of the day. Her eyes lit up as she spoke. She looked slightly beyond me and smiled to herself, lost in the garden of her mind, even though she was stood near an A-road next to a drive-in McDonalds, breathing steam into the cold air as she watered thousands of plants.

So, I bought various pots of greenery, some with buds, then got home, read the instructions and realised that several of them were potential allergens and toxic if eaten. You try telling a two-year-old that she should try to eat some lettuce or other salad leaf and not the 10,000 other green leaves that she sees on a daily basis. The Homebase people, who were shockingly nice if misguided initially (and I am slightly appalled at myself for thinking they'd be arsey and glare at me), well, they were brilliantly helpful and let me exchange the plants for various items including seed potatoes (which look like potatoes, not seeds... hmmm).

After two trips and an aching back from carrying the stuff (who knew that everything to do with gardening is heavy and makes your back hurt, or is that just my age?) – I have planned where I am to put the plants that promise to grow in partial sunshine. I have also bought a long zinc planter where I'll stick some lily bulbs and clusters of forget-me-nots. Pictures will appear on this blog when it's done, but don't go holding your breath.

I am rather excited. 

I enjoy garden centres with a passion once reserved for Harvey Nicks. 

I am concerned about the drought. 

I am planning when I can harvest my maris piper and king edwards. 

I am, truly, middle-aged.

Edited to add: several readers have come upon this page by searching for plant suggestions for north facing gardens. These are some that I planted (but bear in mind, I'd have added hellebores if they weren't harmful, as well as lupins). So, I have forget-me-not, hebe, cornflower, vinca minor, peacock orchid (mainly in pots). There are stocks and ice plants in the garden, too. There's a hellebore in the sunny front garden – gorgeous – but only because L's not likely to be playing there...

Many varieties of clematis thrive in north-facing gardens – we have some established clematis and jasmine, all of which are lovely. Look for Alpines, as these usually fare well with a lack of sunlight. Veggie wise, I'm chitting some maris piper and king edward potatoes (this simply means leaving them in a cool, light place so their sprouty bits can lengthen, which makes them sturdier when planted out). These, too, are OK in partial sunlight.

Supermarket sweep

Why is it that, no matter how many people are behind you in the queue at a supermarket, the till operator usually moves at a ridiculous and unnecessary pace? What I want is reasonably carefully packed bags, with fridge and frozen stuff together, tins in another, bread and other squashable items in their own bag, etc etc. But what I get is a mish-mash of shopping that will take twice as long to unpack, based on how fast my hands can move. It's as though there is some penalty for leaving the goods on the conveyor belt for more than two seconds. 

The cashier can see that you are struggling to get it all packed while making sure your toddler doesn't fall out of their plastic seat (despite being strapped in); they watch as you fumble to open plastic bags (if like me, you frequently leave the four environmentally-friendly jute numbers in the boot of the car). But do they help? No. They. Just. Watch. And then you pay and can almost hear them drumming their mental fingers on your head as you search for a loyalty card (do they realise that loyalty means they have to be nice?)... and then there's my frenzied digging around for coupons for Aptamil toddler milk (which is bloody expensive but reassuring, and, yes, I did breastfeed my daughter for as long as we could manage when she was smaller, so don't even think about guilt-tripping me any more than I have been).

Anyway, Waitrose... well, they go  m u c h  m o r e  s l o w l y and, frankly, it makes the whole experience relatively enjoyable when I can afford to go there. It's a shame Tesco and Sainsbury's (30 tills and only ever six open, the bastards), don't take note. 

Ground down

It's a standing joke among some family and friends that I take a long time to eat anything. I enjoy food – there is little better than savouring a delicious meal and talking to someone, or several people, over the experience, for a few leisurely hours preferably. But my eating speed has slowed. This is due to fractures running the course of several molars. Years of gnashing my teeth at night (and clenching my jaw by day) are taking their toll. It doesn't matter what I eat; it is a painful process. 

I had a large tooth, which had cracked and broken, removed a few years ago (if you're interested, the relevant posts are all labelled 'teeth'). My latest trip to the dentist revealed more damage, this time to the opposite side of my mouth, and I wasn't surprised. When I eat, my mouth hurts. When I don't eat, my mouth hurts. My dentist has referred me for hospital treatment, or at least a consultation. I really hope they can sort my teeth out... I know people's teeth fall out and all that, but the fact that this is happening to me reminds me of why I grind my teeth – old stress levels that have done this. Things that, frankly, I don't want to think about any more. 

Insulation

Perhaps it's because it's cold out that I am eating extra biscuits and chocolate. I have even left several bananas longer than I normally would, specifically to speckle, so that I can bake a loaf of banana bread that has been described as "f*cking awesome" by someone who reviewed the recipe (I will share it if it is this good).

I will bake later. I can't wait. Hello, double chin.

Now, then

I'm reading a book based on memory (SJ Watson's brilliant debut, Before I Go To Sleep) and wondering what life would be like without the capacity to recall one's history (a theme that I think is covered in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, which I haven't seen yet). There are things I suspect I would (should?) like to forget – things that I had in fact blocked out for a while – but if I did properly erase all of that stuff, would I be doomed to repeat mistakes and wonder why it was I feel X about Y? 

The clincher for me would be the lack of being able to experience the warm glow – and sadness – that comes with nostalgia, something that I am wont to feel with a vividness that can knock my breath from me. There are places that are so evocative that just being there is time travel. The old, the gone, the usually-forgotten, spring back into life if I mentally or physically 'go back', and I can be 5, 10, 15, 20, 25, 35 years younger, in the switch of a synapse. It happened several months ago, as I walked near a place in which I had worked during my late 20s and 30s. Everything seemed to rush back, a waterfall of memories and feelings, wonderful and wretched. A lump formed in my throat as the trees, pavements and some of the still-standing businesses, bars and shops wove a silent web around me and threw me hurtling back to when my life was something entirely different. Time didn't stand still; it came back on itself, looping so unexpectedly by making me relive situations and conversations that I was taken aback. How did I get here from there? I still wonder. When recalling the not-so-good times, it's not triumph over adversity that I feel, but a sense of cautious relief.
Visiting my childhood home also gave me a powerful burst of nostalgia. I clearly recall the 70s wallpaper (most people would find it unforgettable, to be fair); the paint better suited to a curry spice kit than walls, the sunlight streaming into the front room, the relative darkness of the back. The thud of a tennis ball against a wall, a large orange Spacehopper bouncing on the hard ground, a slippery paddling pool, a Wendy house where I secretly gorged on soft brown sugar (don't ask), a 'blue moon' rose bush my parents sourced for my birthday, a light grey trim phone, the sound of the early morning milk float, two deliveries of post before noon, a serving hatch, an Austin Allegro (apple green), a beautiful ginger cat who grew with me and made me cry for months when his mouth swelled with a tumour; the huge radiogram with its SW, LW, MW and possibly FM wavebands... The ability to keep facts and conversations in my head, when now I have to stop and calculate to know what day it is and how old I am. That kind of thing.

The childhood house has changed beyond recognition; the saddest sight for me was seeing that the previously tenderly-kept front garden, home to the beautiful blue rose bush and myriad flowers and shrubs, had a new lease of life, if you can call it that, as a dirty concrete driveway. The house was an unkempt mess. The road was littered. I have mentioned this in another post, so won't repeat it. Nostalgia, in that case, was replaced by intense disappointment and sadness, plus a measure of anger. 
There are many songs written about the past, about fond memories and regret (notably the one written by Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails, covered so poignantly by Johnny Cash, as per my post on March 6)... It's Cash's delivery – the fact he is talking about himself, his life, albeit through someone else's words – that gives it such intensity. Without his memories, the song would be just lyrics; the video, showing him at his prime and as a frail dying man, would be just pictures. Instead, it grabs the listener/viewer with its stunning rawness. Long live nostalgia. I'm certain it helps to make us – and keep us – human.

Shiver

This is not a good song to drive to (it was on the radio yesterday as I sat behind the wheel, and, yes, the car was moving). Did you know that if you type "hurt" into Google, the top hit is this:

New wave

OK, so I've revamped the blog and am not going to try starting a new-fangled thing that pretends to be 'improved'. Gone is the gothic black background that was a fitting casing for my largely insomnia-weighted writing. I can't promise eternal sunshine of the brighter blog, because life's not like that. And I'd be bored silly. You'd have clicked on 'next blog' by now. I do, however, think the new layout is easier to read, but that could be because my eyes are older and my glasses are in need of a new prescription. I can't afford new specs, so I'll squint a little harder. And make the font a bit bigger.

Do, or delete?

The issue at hand is this: so much has changed since this blog was born, that I know not whether to call time on it or let it grow into what it would otherwise be. Part of me wants to start a shiny, new blog, to lose this one in the ether. Part of me wants to see this chronicle grow into something bigger, with a thicker trunk, stronger branches, more gnarled bits, more glossy leaves than previously...
Hmmm.
So, yes, I have less time on my hands now, something borne out of the fact that I have not blogged in nearly a year, though I have thought about doing so many times. Part of the reason is that I broke a wrist, which meant work and recreational writing – and cathartic writing – were too painful and unreachable.
And – do I want to write a 'mummy blog'? Part of me thinks I could, should... Doesn't everyone? Some people do it beautifully and I love the honesty and humour these writers possess. But, me? I am still the 'me' that was there before I became a mother, and I was just me for a long time and I swear and shout at times, and I talk about things that might annoy people (quite happily). So, can it be sensible to decide to confine any future writing – blogging – to matters of which nappies fit best, the right way to breastfeed (don't get me started...), how I should potty train and all that? I think not. (They will, however, play a role. There is a lot of material there. Oh YES.) See, the trouble is, when I think Mummy Blog, I think of those clichéd topics. So, you can imagine what a load of fun that would be to read... I'll leave that aspect of blogdom to those who do it well.
I will see you again soon, in this incarnation, I think. I have lots to say. But as a former insomniac, whose sleep is under greater control but paradoxically less (for obvious reasons when there is a small person in the house), I shall contain myself and write when it is not so close to the witching hour...