Those days

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

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...

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. 

Friend or foe?

There is an organisation that purports to bring together women who are about to have babies. It sometimes even welcomes the men in their lives, acknowledging that they, too, are about to become parents.
The idea is to create support networks and to educate these fledgling parents by explaining what happens in labour, childbirth and, if you are lucky (which I wasn't) you'd learn how to bathe a newborn, how to change her or him and perhaps get beyond the 'breast is best' brainwashing. Encouragement and guidance = good. Guilt and emotional blackmail = deeply damaging for some women (so: BACK OFF).
This cost around £300. I wish I could have that money back. There is so much, so much, that I could use it for. Even if I were to buy fairy lights and string them about my person, purchase a few bottles of glitter and decorate my face, some new shoes, some chocolate cake, a daily latte... all of these things would be worth more than the five-hour long sessions that peppered my pregnancy. Yes. Someone in their wisdom decided that Sunday afternoon sessions that stretched from midday till 5pm – without a break – would be a good idea. Being pregnant and sitting in one place all day, during the summer, without a chance to walk or eat properly, is really what you want, isn't it...
Anyway, aside from the lack of teaching anything remotely useful, this organisation also failed in its promise of sisterhood bonding. What a surprise that early proximity and the intimacy of the subject matter, which made the seven couples seem to get on, eventually result in bitchiness I've only ever encountered in a playground. One woman claimed in one breath to have been violated by a midwife (she used the phrase, "it was like rape"), and in the next, discussed how she'd get her bits sewn up "so they were just like they used to be" for "her man's pleasure". Nice to share that after one meeting, dear.
The other women in the group ranged from being fairly nice to weirdly competitive – so stupidly competitive that they'd comment negatively, with smug faces, on how much posset (milk) other babies brought up after a feed (erm, they ALL do it). The group existed for about four months once the babies had arrived and then it splintered as alliances based on levels of wine-love and woman-hate were established. My midwife, who became a friend, told me she sees this "all the time". Sad. The effect on me was initially deeply hurtful. Fresh into motherhood and having been ill due to it, I felt alone and confused outside my immediate family. Hormones helped to compound this. However, I did keep a friend from that group and we found common ground beyond our babies and are still in touch, albeit infrequently.
My friends from 'before' were – mainly – as ever, and I love them for it. And I have met some wonderful women since that pseudo-bonding £300 experience (yes, I am bitter about that cash!), who have enriched my life. My child has plenty of fun with their children. I have plenty of fun with them. It's relaxed company, and like the best things in life, is free. Apart from the occasional latte and glass of wine.

Sometimes

Usually, rays of sunlight imbue me with something to keep me going. This afternoon, following a mad, manically busy morning, all I have wanted to do is shout, swear, throw things and generally behave like a madwoman. On such days, things break. I drop things. Things seem to fall over with no intervention. Things. Get. On. My. Nerves.

My shoulders have springs coiled inside the sinews. I can feel them snapping, tightening, acid curdling.

Cabin fever

I want to go out. I want to go out.

Look, I know I can just go out. But it's tricky. I have a little baby to think of. OK, so when I take her out in this weather, she's wrapped up warm and snug. But she needs fairly regular feeds and that, so I need to be responsible enough to not just go off and wander and that what with the roads being rather treacherous and traffic jam-prone. That's all fine by me (the responsibility thing, I mean). It's just the dratted ice that's causing me to feel trapped, to feel the fever of the cabin, to wish I were in sunnier climes. Mauritius? Mmm. Or just somewhere that could cope better with snow – and ice.

Look, I do realise that this snow is unusual, but where I live, it's not that bad. It really isn't. I recall much worse. When it snowed for a few days when I was a child, we used to have side roads gritted (oh, and novelty, even the pavements were gritted!). But now? Now, we just have roads littered with excuses for this and that, and it means that a short walk, a would-be constitutional, could be disastrous, or at the very least (without the appropriate footwear) unpleasant. See, I like to walk quickly, I always have. But, despite my Ugg-a-likes looking like they could see off any ice-challenge, the truth is that they, too, slip a tad. Drat.

So, I stayed in today and dusted. And tidied. And my back hurts now. Bring on springtime!

The disappeared

It's funny – peculiar, not haha – how people come and go from one's life. I didn't really expect to lose friends, or to have them drift, just because I am expecting a baby. But it has happened. I can try to understand the reasons but part of me is pretty annoyed about their selfishness.

I am not the sort of person to talk about one topic endlessly (i.e. impending motherhood). Never have been. It's insulting that some people seem to be unable to deal with events in my life and I am certainly not going to apologise for getting on with things. OK, so I have less time and far less energy to blog, go out and entertain. But c'est la vie. It doesn't mean I've turned into a bloody cabbage. I've seemingly been struck off a couple of people's friend lists and even blog lists. Not what I expected, but hey, it seems that if I can't go out and drink/stay out late, or X, Y or Z (and then write about it), well, that's that.

Well, bollocks to it. I am heartily sick of being a silent, understanding, doormat-type psychiatrist for those who apply my life events to their own, find some huge relevance and threat, and cannot step back from whatever crappage may be behind their 'distance'. I'm fed-up with sending emails filled with questions and interest in the other person that elicit lukewarm shite. I'm fed-up with my invitations to meet being batted away with "I'm busy/ill/broke" etc. We're all fucking busy, feel sick at times and have no cash. I'm fed-up with making allowances for this and that. Enough.

Things are not all bad on the people front, though. Far from it. My faith in 99.9 per cent of people I care for remains, as ever, strong – stronger, even. And the kindness of someone I'd lost touch with has taken me by surprise. It's a funny old world.


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Listening to: Talk Talk - Life's What You Make It

Property solicitors: my thoughts

Some are good, OK, OK. Mine is great in fact. But some are shockingly incompetent. Why do they lie? Do they secretly wish they'd become teachers of fiction? They can certainly spin a yarn, but having said that, they rarely deliver said tales with any charm. I suppose they relax once they have the job booked. They don't give a damn about the stress they create; it is money for nothing very much. If I charged by the hour to recoup the cost of the time I have spent chasing and writing emails, I'd be booking my ticket to Mauritius now.

I have images of the man who is holding up my home move (he's acting for my buyer and vendor, sandwiching me in a somewhat stale chain)... sitting back in a big leather chair, feet on his desk, hand busy with his crotch. 'Cos that's what he is: a lying w*nker.

Drivers in the rain

Why is it that people drive stupidly slowly when there is even a hint of water on the roads? Why? I'm not advocating speed or tailgating (both of which I hate) but a little common sense and absence of fear of wet roads would not go amiss during rush hour. We are, after all, in northern Europe.

The rage

Today, I had The Rage. It was caused by: slow drivers, people who amble along reading/writing texts at rush hour, the slush, the stupid printing machine at work, the IT people at work (one had the gall to tell me to turn my computer off and then on again, FFS), my friend cancelling dinner as she didn't want to venture home when it was late (and I really, really needed a drink and a chat, so I was peeved)... and, erm, there were other things, too. I swore like a trooper/trouper (?!) without much self-consciousness. But then again, I have spent years in newspaper offices/publishing. It's tough. You have to be.

But I'm home now and have eaten a creme egg (after having some proper food). And it is Friday! Hurrah. All's well with the world.

Thump

I was hit by a wall of sadness this evening. It came from nowhere and swamped me, a fierce wave of emotion that smacked my solar plexus and made me catch my breath. OK, so I wasn't in the world's best mood (poor kip, painful knee, raw skin on my face, sore arm post-flu jab, being unexpectedly kicked across the room while holding a pad, which f*cking hurt my leg!).

But, it was when I saw the little chairs at the side of the room, the small plastic seats that infants sit on, that something happened inside me. It was odd. It was as though a plug had been pulled. I felt as though I might weep loudly, and never stop. I just swallowed and batted back the tears that had started to form.

This was, I think, about people, justice and my faith in karma. Baby P justice, justice for the innocent Asian man killed by two fuckwits who got 'life' (13 and 17 years in jail before parole comes up for consideration – how in hell is that life?!), justice for girls raped in D R Congo. And on it goes.

The one thing that keeps many people going is that there is justice, divine or otherwise. But how can we have faith when apathy reigns and we let inhumane behaviour go on as we quote the tough lives of those who are responsible as the reasons why. This tolerance for the intolerable surely makes us culpable? If you don't know something's happening then you can't stop it. But if you do... like with the case of Baby P, and still nothing happens to change it, where is there to go? Is this just anarchy, albeit diluted? Do we have any control over anything? The thought that we don't and that we have no one to really rely on (and by that I mean the 'authorities'), is chilling.

I couldn't drive. I am frustrated with myself, with things that have affected me, with powerlessness, with things beyond my control. I sat and cried. There was nothing else to do.

Grit

Yet again, I have an injury that is preventing me from going completely hell for leather in kung fu. It's the old knee situation. It's my own fault. Both my knees were painful so I did physio exercises; they got better and I stopped the physio. Now, one is bad again – searing pain when it's in a certain position.

It's annoying. Not only do I have the knee thing, but the skin around my eyes, following the eye infection, which is still waxing and waning, is so tight that it hurts. Nothing seems to help. It just flares up and abates, with varying degrees of severity. Last night, my skin was so itchy that I hardly slept and my eyes watered and itched again. I have longish fingernails and was so uncomfortable that I was scratching my face without really caring what happened. Luckily, it doesn't look as bad as it feels. I was so tired when I dragged myself out of bed this morning...

I had hesitated to tell my fu teacher, N, that I was yet again, yet abloodygain, injured/unfit. He said he had never met anyone like me (in terms of my capacity for things to go a bit awry). I said I hadn't either. I know that many of my ailments are stress-related, and stem from lack of sleep and unpleasant things happening to me. But I have to report such things, or I'll be shouted at for not performing remotely well.

I needn't have worried about N's reaction, which was possibly the nicest/most motivating thing he has ever said to me – that he "would be so annoyed if you don't become really good at kung fu, as the amount of grit you must have to keep on, despite all those things happening must be huge..." It was a bit of a shock to hear something positive, as I'd become somewhat conditioned to criticism. But it meant a lot. Without going into my life history, I suppose I am strong. S tells me I am. So do close friends. But I often, too often, forget and think I'm rubbish. So damned British.

Raw

My eyes are so raw and red and itchy that I feel I could scratch them out. I am worried, as my sight is a bit odd at the moment. The GPs I've seen have recommended X, Y and Z as cures but none have worked. The eye A&E chap was not better (and I am pretty sure he didn't use gloves when he touched my face/eye – ugh).

The eye thing, whatever it is, has extended to the skin around my eyes – it's so dry, it's awful. And when my eyes water, the saltiness of my tears makes my skin burn with pain. It almost makes me want to cry but that would just hurt. I'm waiting for a referral letter to the hospital. Madness. How bloody long will that take? The itchiness breaks my sleep, precious sleep. It's rubbish. Rubbish and crap.

Good cop, good cop

The police came round and were very helpful. They listened, gave advice and offered to help. The main constable, who was an excellent communicator, soared in my estimation when he took the effects on my health and sleep very seriously, saying that he feels rubbish when he misses sleep and could relate to how I must feel.

It's a shame GFG isn't home, as they would have had a word about harassment among other things. Her front door had been left open (she'd left it that way), so they had a good look round her flat (and commented that they could see what I mean re the doors...) while shouting: "anyone in?" Ha ha, bet she'd love to have seen that.

They'll be back.

Weekus horribilus

The people waiting in the hospital eye casualty department were a mixed bunch. There were some like me, in their 30s, with nothing too obvious afflicting them. Then there were older folk with super-thick glasses on. And then, of course, there were a couple of young men with black eyes, stories to tell and bloody bandages.

I had secured a late appointment at the GP who told me to go to eye casualty immediately as the antibiotics and other types of drops had failed to clear my eye for a month. It's been itchy, blurred and red most days. The GP, who is lovely, asked me if I have been stressed lately. I mentioned only that I had had money in Icesave, which collapsed amid much uncertainty over what would happen to savers' money; I decided the rest of my worries would take up far too long to explain so curtailed any further chat.

By the time I got to the hospital, which charges a stupid amount for parking, it was nearly midday. The GP had warned me that I would be there for a couple of hours, but I was not prepared for a five-hour wait! It was ridiculous. Luckily, I had taken some work with me, a report that needed to be read, so I sat there with my green highlighter and wodge of paper as absolutely sod all seemed to happen around me.

Occasionally, I went back to my car to buy a new parking ticket (£10 spent on that) and sat in the autumn sun listening to the radio. Strange fat caterpillars with wings (I think) crept over the windscreen so slowly that any distance covered was only apparent after many minutes. My route to the hospital, as advised by the GP, had taken me through a beautiful park, where dying leaves of green, gold and red hues made me catch my breath. If I wake early at the weekend, I will take my camera with me and capture some images. Mist rising and deer feeding... stunning.

Eventually, after lunch (£7) I saw the ophthalmologist who flicked my eyelid inside out (OUCH) and prodded about. He ruled out the usual infections and said my eyelids were inflamed and the eye itself didn't show anything unusual in terms of sight etc. He seemed to accuse me of using make-up to irritate my eyes, which I found really annoying. I haven't put any eye make-up on for bloody ages! I miss lashing my lashes with mascara and eyeliner. I've only relatively recently got the hang of painting a line above my upper lashes.

Dr Eye gave me a tube of steroid ointment that I must squeeze into my affected eye for a week and that was that. I got home at 5pm. So far, the redness in my eye has subsided a bit but last night I lay awake as the pesky itching returned in the dead of night. I started reflecting then about my savings, my expenditure (which I have reined in but does nevertheless merit consideration), my lack of work, my appalling neighbour's ongoing idiocy, my body's reaction to cumulative stressors over the years, and somehow fell back to sleep.

My kung fu instructor, N, said I seemed withdrawn yesterday and a couple of my classmates saw through my unconvincing smile and asked if I was OK. I had to blink back tears. Normally I can hide how I feel from most people but I just didn't have it in me. The thumpthumpthump of thingafterthing can be wearing. I was paying N for a class when he said he reckoned my eye problem was down to stress, which I agree is right; he advised me to train to get rid of stress. Trouble is classes cost... I have the option of doing some leafleting for the club in return for classes, which is good, but it is slightly disheartening that this is what I must do. If any writing needs to be done for the club, I can hopefully do that in return for classes (I've done some in the past, as a favour), but it seems nowt needs doing now. I must sort out some work...

This has not been the best week ever. Not the worst. But not the best.

Eye drips and drops

There are drafts of three unfinished posts in my 'posts' basket thing. They are entitled: "What goes around", "Choosing battles" and "Reflection".

The first two posts, had I bothered/had time to complete them, were about downstairs woman, GFG, and her wet walls and ceiling, which mysteriously leaked really badly for one night and then stopped. She had to come up and talk to us after being nasty for months. She still remained frosty and rude but it was funny to see her on the back foot. I call it karma. I call GFG, the door slammer extraordinaire, a bitch.

The third post, possibly more worthy of my time and brain power, was about how very tired I feel at times now. It reminds me of how I felt when I was suffering particularly badly from insomnia. I cannot now imagine how I got through weeks, months, years, without madness descending. (Or maybe it did...)

My current tiredness is due to having an eye infection that has gone on and on and on and on. I cannot wear eye make-up, which makes me feel a bit naked if I'm in a professional situation (I like my eyes to look 'polished', if that is possible). The skin around my right eye is red and raw, and I look as though I have been punched. The eye is scratchy (eyeball and lid). The eye streams at times. There seem to be bits in my eye. I wake due to all of the above, and I scratch and press my poor eyes.

I know it is not good to rub your eyes but I do so with much vigour. I do it in my sleep. I rub until my eyeballs squeak. The bad one is so irritated that I screw my fist on to the closed eye until my mouth waters. (I know, this is weird. I feel strange and obscene writing it down.)

My GP gave me some drops (that followed the previous prescription of eye cream) and while the drops feel cool, they don't stop the ITCHING. Bloody, stinking bastard itching.

I am irritated, itchy and annoyed. Even doing hours and hours of kung fu, which made me madly tired, have not been able to overtake the keep-awakeness of the eye thing. Hmph.

Time

I never seem to have enough time to write down my thoughts. It is driving me mad.

Punched

You know when someone says something to you and it's so unexpected and so weird (in a bad way) that you think you are going mad, that it can't have been the case? Well, I feel like I have just imagined an entire conversation.

Sometimes I feel as though I am speaking a different language (to some people). I am numb.

I can't even begin to explain it (sorry, I know that's not very helpful in blogland).

Holding back the fears

Apparently, one of the reasons I can't always (well, often) hit as hard as I want to in kung fu is because I am internalising certain things (namely anger). I hold back. The reasons are myriad.

It's quite bizarre, this mind-affecting-body lark. I am going to try to cease with this internal baloney, which only ever damages me, and hit/kick the crap out of the next pad I meet. When I get there, the catharsis, I imagine, will be explosive.

Blue

Today was one of those days when I wished I had stayed in bed...

• I've had one assignment slashed by half, at very short notice, and it has made me feel awful. It's an awkward situation where someone wants to save money and is questioning why I need X number of days to do something. I've taken X days to do the same volume for years and been praised and asked back again and again. But now? Now, all of a sudden, I'm being made to feel as though I've lied about the amount of time I spent previously (when I worked my arse off) and have been questioned about what I did. It's very depressing. I feel like a popped balloon. I haven't felt like crying about work for a long time.

• I had a headache all day yesterday as I didn't get enough sleep. Consequently, I didn't sleep well last night, which for me, is a bloody shitty disaster.

• I was absolutely dire in kung fu. I almost burst into tears in the middle of class; in fact tears did roll down my cheeks but I pretended they were sweat, not that it fooled anyone. N, the instructor, was infinitely patient with me. I think he was willing me not to cry. I was burning up inside as everyone seemed to grasp what we were meant to be doing and I ended up looking like a moron. My brain just wasn't retaining anything. It was like a vacuum. A couple of my fellow students said I was "doing well", but I know I wasn't. They were trying to be supportive but it just made me feel even more inadequate that they had noticed me struggling so badly, so much so that they (who are by no means brilliant) felt they could comment. I know they were trying to help, though... I know. But it felt rather patronising.

• I had a (surprisingly healthy) ready meal and some old cream liquor for dinner. I felt better – number – as the alcohol warmed my body and quietened my brain.

• I've had my hair cut recently; it was very long and is now shoulder length. Most people have said positive things about it but a couple of people have said nothing except "Oh, you've had your hair cut?" What am I supposed to say? "Er, no. I just have a wig on." Why do people bother saying anything if they think I look horrible? Why not just not say anything? The worst was one friend who said: "Ah, had your hair cut..." and then did this noise, a sort of elongated "oh" mixed with a "hmmm" while nodding slowly and unconvincingly. Yeah, that made me feel amazing – thanks. I'd never do that to someone – unless I wanted to hurt them. Main thing is that I really like my hair now, it is much more manageable and is finally in a decent style. S loved it and so do most of my comrades, so what does it matter? (It matters when it's one more criticism to add to a day-full...)

• Oh fuck it. I'm going to bed.