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...

Weather with me

I don't know what to wear. After the hottest April since records began, I am now feeling cold due to the easterly winds that are biting us, and am carrying a coat around just in case. I have terrible sunburn on my neck and shoulders (and one ear), so I'm clad in layers and a scarf to cover up the burns and stop them worsening, and to prevent the angry patches of skin from showing. Also, at present, the scarf is keeping me warm. Judging by the temperature now, I'll not change a clout till May's out.

William and Catherine, and all that

They tied the knot on April 29, 2011, sparking many a street party

I feel I should write something about the wedding of Prince William to Catherine Middleton. If I had written a post about it a few weeks ago, I'd have peppered it with more than a touch of cynicism, forcing an attempt to make myself take note, in the interests of being a journalist and an observer of life as we know it. But as the day approached, like a slow-moving tsunami, my excitement grew, my patriotism soared, my love of romance made my heart beat faster and my fondness of this country, with its amazing history, brilliant eccentricity and strange weather, rocketed.

I was up early on the big day with my little one; her dad was playing cricket somewhere in Sussex. She stood in front of the television as William and Kate exchanged vows and rings, wondering why Mama had a sudden, and unexpected, tear in her eye and spoke a little strangely, due to the lump in her throat. I don't know why, but I was moved by the ceremony and by the hopeful faces. I was surprised that I cared. Perhaps it was the cumulative goodwill. Perhaps it was witnessing history. Perhaps I am just an old romantic fool.

I told my little girl that the man in scarlet uniform would be king one day, and that, in all likelihood, her generation would see at least three monarchs, if not four, in its members' lifetimes. She listened, carried on playing with her yellow and red plastic toy giraffe and again stood between me and the television talking to me in toddler-speak, but I nevertheless caught the main bits and pieces of the proceedings.

Later, we went for a walk and passed several street parties in full swing. The fluttering of Union flags, bunting, and the sound of chatting and laughter were wonderful. Something that could elicit so much positivity, and (republicans aside) be devoid of the cynicism that taints just about everything else we encounter these days, can surely only be a good thing...

The new Duchess of Cambridge

They're not just for Easter...

Is it just me that believes Cadbury creme eggs were available all year round in the 70s and 80s? They aren't Easter fayre, are they? Do I have false Cadbury's memory syndrome?

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.

Journeywoman

Due to developing an illness that affects one in 300 women, or something like that, I was told I should consider having what purists might term an unnatural birth. The baby was at risk, and so was I. So, her birthday was brought forward and I was booked in for the first operation I have had, bar dental surgery. I was so tired, so very exhausted by weeks of illness and not being able to sleep due to the Woman Next Door (WND)'s bloody noisy, ongoing building work (another story)... But there I was, with S, on the early morning of motherhood, nervous as hell and looking pretty unpretty, my skin dull and blotchy. The place was spotless, utterly clinical. My surgeon and the anaesthetist had warned me of all the complications, which included death, so I was suitably shaken.

The obstetrician sliced through my abdominal muscles instead of parting them (as is normal with most Caesarean sections), as my years of kung fu had rendered my stomach muscles 'so tight!' that the team couldn't stretch them. A compliment, at any rate, and one that made me smile as I waited in fear/hope/excitement as my insides were tugged and pulled with immense force. I had imagined that during a Caesarean section the baby was always lifted out calmly, gently, peacefully... but the fact is they try – where possible – to give the baby something akin to the experience of birth. In reality, they push the little being from its warm cocoon through the incision and out into the brightly-lit, impeccably clean theatre with its white walls, scrubbed and greened theatre team, metal implements and an absolutely massive digital clock on the wall, (which had stared back at me as a spinal tap was inserted).

After this part – the 'spinal', as it's called by some – I lay down as the powerful anaesthetic coursed through my body, deadening my nerves. They sprayed an icy cold substance up and down my sides to determine where sensation began and ended, a process that was repeated until the correct vertebral markers were numb. It was a staggeringly quick process and one that added surreality to that which any new parent must feel. One minute there's no child. And the next? "Meet your daughter," as this tiny person is held above the blue cloth they pin up to stop the mother and birth partner (S, in my case) seeing the gory business. Afterwards, I asked S what he could manage to see, and he said: "just lots of blood". I recall hearing the words: scalpel, knife, suction, gutters... and forced S, at the time, to tell me in great detail about his week at work. Also nervous, he got through this quickly and moved on to a ghost story. I think. I was terrified. My hands were clammy, my brow sweated and the oft-repeated warnings of what might happen to me and the baby rang in my ears. A Caesarean is not an easy way out. To believe so is incredibly stupid. What kind of fool would choose a major abdominal operation with a higher mortality rate than the other option?

The birth itself involved so much pressure being applied to my chest that I suffered excruciating pain in my upper back once we got home – and at one point screamed for an ambulance, as I (really) thought I was about to die of a heart attack. But it's not uncommon, this pain. This squeeze out of the womb helps the baby to do what it would do naturally – take a breath and cry to clear its lungs to begin its life independent of the umbilical cord. I cannot begin to describe the feeling I had at that moment. It was out of this world for its sheer uniqueness. My life, at a stroke – in the beat of a tiny heart – had changed irrevocably. I had taken a fork in the road that would lead us to life anew.
The scar is still numb. I couldn't touch it for weeks after the dressing had been removed, and then, only tentatively, peeking at it shyly as though it might open and reveal my shiny, scarlet innards. It's neat, about six inches across (having shrunk from nine) and sits beneath where I might wear a bikini if I chose to do so. Neat work by the startlingly young-looking surgeon who performed the operation. The skin is looser than it was before and, while I was back into my favourite fitted jeans fairly quickly, there is more sag, more excess, more softness. As my abs were cut open, it's unlikely I'll regain my muscle tone of old. I don't worry about these things. I don't diet. I do my best to exercise (a little). But flat tummy or not, my scar will always remind me of all of the above and more: of where I was and where I am now. It is the best kind of body art. No Chinese saying, no Inca symbol, no bird or butterfly could mean more.

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.

Let's just act as though I've been here all along...

Hmmm. Why start with all that "why is it February 2011?" stuff? What's the point? Time will fly and the alternative is that we die, so let's just accept it. Thank you for being here and listening. If you are an old friend, a reader who kept pace with me for the past few years (bar the last), I apologise. My thoughts have flicked to this blog and flicked just as quickly away. But I always hoped to one day remember the password and get cracking again.

So, I've been standing in the room all along, a little quietly, observing and listening. Cocking my head for the sounds that envelope my being in this new world where I am me, but I am also another's in a way that I have never been another's. My time is shaped differently. It's sometimes replete with exhaustion (though this sensation is far less than it was a year ago). Time is also lit up with the sparkling, tingling, stunning newness that can only come with spending time with a mind that is yet so unfocused but so interested that it picks on just about anything to hang its hat on. A dog. A leaf. A face. A smile. A bird. Music. Books. These things become fascinating for me anew and I could cry with delight. I remember, feel, how much I enjoy music, how it lifts me from the doldrums or lets me drown in its catharsis. I love walking with no agenda, seeing the trees go through their cycle and life spring up. The winter sunshine invigorates me. I have hardly any money. But I have all of these other things. And I see them reflected back in similar eyes to mine. And the responsibility and wonder hits me again.
If it's not too late to say it: Happy 2011.

Erm, it's May...

Please, someone, tell me how it's May. It's mid-May at that.

Sorry I haven't been on here much – and apologies to those who left me messages and comments that have gone unnoticed until today. You know who you are and I send you good vibes and thanks for not giving up on me.

I sort of don't know where to start. I mean, do I start by writing a huge post that will no doubt take hours and yet fail to convey the reality of life in the past few months? Er, I don't know. One thing that made me think of this blog was my brain-wracking last night as I tried to recall a very rude Finnish word... It has just come back to me and I shall be using it where appropriate.

But anyway.

A summary to begin with, to ease me back into cyberland and blogdom... I hope you will forgive me for being a tad lazy about this.

Sleep – this has not been as bad, or as scant, as one might expect. I am lucky to have such a laid-back and clever bairn, who knows how much mummy values shut-eye. However, baby's teething does cause her discomfort and breaks up her kip at times. Five night in a row is tough. I sometimes feel so tired I cannot move. But she is worth all of it.

House – I am now living in a house, not a flat. It is a tiny house, a Victorian cottage, but there is no GFG, no door slamming from below! Hurrah. However, the woman next door (WND) refuses to remove her stilettos and plods around her wooden floors like a shire horse on stilts. She's a right moody cow with a face like a smacked arse most of the time, but that's for another day. The woman on the other side is, happily, fab.

Work – I have done only a few days' work, as I am on maternity leave. I am pretty broke but now realise how much I frittered in the past. I think my attitude to cash has changed permanently. When I think of how much I/we used to spend on what is, basically crap, I shudder.

Kung fu – this is back on the agenda. I ache like a bastard at times after class, but it's fantastic to be exercising again and to be back in the swing of things. I'm even sparring and fighting blokes twice my size and half my age. Slightly demented, but it's good fun (most of the time).

Motherhood (last but not least, obv) – the most amazing experience. Ne plus ultra. Quite surreal at times. Exhausting. Exhilarating. Energising. Educational. Wouldn't change it for the world.

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 white stuff

So... it has snowed: well, it is winter. It's pretty and romantic... until the stuff gets muddy, murky and then solidifies. But I want springtime now. Now, now, now. It may be because I am someone who just cannot do ice (I can't ice skate, have no desire to ski and find icy pavements torturous)... but the endless news coverage and the sad stories of accidents and various struggles make me wish we'd have a day of say, erm, seven degrees Celsuis, a nice thaw and can get back to normal again. Plus, I can stop wearing my Ugg-style boots, which are doing my knees in.

Happy New Year!

First, a very Happy New Year to those who follow this blog/remember me/have stumbled upon me!! I'm sorry I have been so tardy and so lax in my blogging but I have been going through some major life adjustments that have rendered me sleepless, time-free and exhausted, but very happy...

My baby was born early, in September, as I was ill. I had to have a Caesarean, which was certainly not the easy-peasy option. Why anyone would wish to have their innards sliced and suchlike, is beyond me, but I had the operation on medical grounds, more of which I will write about in a subsequent post for anyone who likes that sort of thing. All I will say is that being given paracetamol instead of morphine/codeine afterwards was not funny...

Anyway, I just wanted to say that I hope you had great Christmas times and also wished to wish you all a very wonderful 2010 and let you know that I will be back blogging between mummy duties. Baby's well, she's a little sweetheart (OK, yes, biased, cetra...). I will write more soon. Not just about my little girl, but other stuff, too...

Workshy

I am procrastinating.

I don't want to work. I want to sleep.

I, do, however, need money.

I must, therefore, work.

Bugger.

Nessun dorma

I have had trouble sleeping again. The pains near my ribs and the physical discomfort are to be expected at this stage of pregnancy but, flipping heck. I felt like a zombie as I sat having my cereal and toast and had to set my work aside to clamber back up to bed (the effort of this left me breathless).

Mum brought me some chicken curry for lunch. This was brilliant, as I would otherwise have eaten what was in our fridge (bread and cheese), which is not a balanced diet. My trip to Sainsbury's to stock up on fruit and some other stuff will have to wait. These things (shopping for food, working, climbing stairs) would once have been so easy. OK, so sleep was never my strong point but it was getting there. Dang.

What I did today

I did nothing. Well, mum and dad looked after me, cooked me lovely food and I spent the time I wasn't eating in bed, resting. (S was playing cricket all day, one of the last in the season.)

I've not had such a relaxed day in years. I didn't think I knew how...

Crushed conkers

There were a few crushed conkers near the little riverside car park. They lay there, burst by car tyres, beautifully brown and green and white, not yet hardened. Food for the squirrels, I imagine.

It is autumn!

Hot tea

Had some tea – black tea with fiery chillies in it – today. I'd met a friend for a catch-up and we chose my local tea house with its civilised tables, trays of cake and remarkably long menu of tea varieties as our venue.

It was a delicious drink – hot, refreshing and had a satisfying kick. I even parted with a few quid for a pouch of the stuff to take home. It would make a great morning pick-me-up , which, by God, I need.

I feel a bit sick now though...

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

Big Riddance

Big Brother really is a pile of rubbish now. I watched a bit this evening before putting the dishes in the washer. The latter was far more entertaining.

Fab 40

I celebrate my 40th birthday this coming week.

Flipping heck.

Am not really hung up on the 'Oh, I'm old' lark, being an eternal child, but I recall little things, such as thinking, at the age of six, how ancient 12-year-olds were. And when I was about 12, I thought our 23-year-old teacher was an old bag (well, she was, but that was more about her personality defects)...

So, anyway, what with the bump growing and that, my plans to have a raucous, drunken affair are now put on hold until the next big one (or a Lotto win). Instead, and I am really looking forward to this, we are having a long lunch by the river in a lovely place. People will surely marvel at just how mature and sophisticated I have become, as I sip elderflower cordial. But seriously, I don't mind about the 40 or the sobriety. I feel very blessed, for many reasons, and those reasons – all people I love (including my new unborn one) – are priceless. Spending time with them over the next few days will be the best present.

Swear box savings plan

OK, so some of you may know I am with child. And some of you may know that I sometimes swear. Badly. Not often, but it would appal my mum. She'd be seriously shocked if she could hear me in a proper rage...

Anyway, S and I have both (separately) seemed to conclude that we (as parents-to-be) swear too much at times. So, I would like suggestions for mummy-friendly curses, such as the following:

Golly-gosh willykins [S has actually used this]
Whoopsadaisy
Bobbins [love this, another S special]
Fudge
Sugar
Crivens
Gosling [mum once told me it was ruder than 'fuck', which I had picked up off some oafish boy, so I called several kids in my infant school playground 'goslings' - no one questioned it]

Suggestions, readers?

Hotter than hot

I know that if I looked back at my posts from a year ago (and the previous year), I'd find myself moaning about the summer rain and the rubbish temperatures... but honestly, being pregnant in this weather is no picnic.

I'm one of those people who usually need the central heating on until June has begun. I never remove any clout till May's out, I tell you (though I did take off jumpers and wrap them around my waist when it was warm in spring). But flipping heck, this 30 degrees lark, well, it's doing me in. I'm so hot. There seems to be no breeze, no wind. I get excited when I hear the rain start and can't believe it only lasts for five seconds. Bloody teasing clouds.

Needless to say, sleeping in this heat is interesting. (I am trying not to swear, as I don't want to teach the little baby-in-belly any bad words; apparently she can hear my voice now...)

A quickie

Been absolutely ages since I have been on here... I almost forgot my login details. But, anyway, hello. I am here, just to say hello and to plead excuses as to why I haven't blogged for such a long time. In a nutshell:

Morning sickness (that went on all day)
Moving house (this was a saga; I was coordinating the move, God knows what the estate agents were getting a fat fee for, the buggers)
Sorting out house (this is still ongoing)
Feeling really, really tired (I have a bump to carry around now - it isn't huge (people say) but I've put on an eighth of my body weight (entirely normal))
No internet access (well, apart from at my parents' home)
Work's been rubbish - there's hardly any to be had - but thank God I don't have to commute for three hours a day. Blessings disguised, I tell you...

And that's about that really. Me, the four-plus-hours-of-kung-fu-a-week girl, can barely get up the stairs without needing a sit down. I've started yoga and t'ai chi, though, and go for walks, too. This to me is pretty strenuous stuff.

Anyway, I shall update again and include more detail. I will try.

Rain dear

I was quite pleased it rained today after the lovely long days of sunshine. The garden was thirsty and it was comforting to hear the patter of drops on the windows.

(I hope the sun comes back soon, though...)

Gurkha scandal

So, we appear to be a haven for people the French (and others) don't want and are a happy home to convicted criminals and purveyors of hate who we have to keep 'for their own good' because the right-on loonies says it's fair... But this increasingly moronic government has decided that it won't allow the majority of these top-class soldiers, who have risked their lives for this country, to live in it?! The Gurkhas have been treated abominably. It's disgusting. Sometimes I think we are living in some kind of warped Truman Show where the experimenters set up situations to see just how fucking stupid we can be.

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.

Ducking the ducks

Well, we didn't really duck the ducks (or the geese), but they were very funny company as S and I sat by a lovely lake today. The sun shone and we lazed on a blanket all afternoon, as our feathered friends strutted around eyeing us for bits of our picnic. They were partial to M&S bacon rasher crisps and even pecked at pieces of jalapeno chili tortilla chips, which worried me slightly.

As we lay back, we listened to snatches of conversations from the passersby who would occasionally stop and sit on a nearby bench, their words carried to us on the gentle breeze. It was a lovely, lovely day. Just the thing to follow our hectic day of packing boxes yesterday in preparation for our home move.

My pregnant pause

I am expecting a baby in October: very exciting, scary, exciting, scary and erm, exciting and scary...

The day I found out was the same day I was told I'd lost my job (no notice, as I am self-employed). Two weeks before that, we secured an offer on our flat despite it not being on the market (we'd tried to sell it unsuccessfully for about a year in 2007-08)... Then we found a place to move to (due to happen in the next few weeks).

To say the past few months has been a whirlwind is an understatement. I've suffered (and am suffering) dreadful sickness but I'm told that this will "just go one day". I can't even open the fridge beyond 5pm. Thinking about it now is actually making me retch. My sense of smell would rival a bloodhound's.

Crazy stuff. All amazing, but crazy (in a good way).

A day in the sun

I felt rotten – dizzy and sick – until I ventured into my back garden and potted a plant that I will be taking to the new place. The fresh air and warmth were like magic. Said plant had been suffering under the shadow of the massive clematis and was straining to reach light and was probably starved of water and suchlike. I imagine the clematis roots spread far and wide.

The sunshine on my arms felt good. I've been stuck inside for what feels like months, feeling pretty rotten. And when I am inactive I feel the cold more acutely than I would otherwise. So, it was great to get outside. Then, my neighbour popped round and gave me a present, totally unexpected, and beautifully thoughtful. When we move, I'll think of them as current friends, not old neighbours.

Later, I went for a drive and succumbed to a McDonald's (I know, I know...). I ate it overlooking the green nearby, the sun shining on me, my CD player on. Next, I went home, sat on the sofa, stuck on a CD that a friend had given me for Christmas (Sarah Slean – very good, like a female Ben Folds) and I finished the novel I was reading. S came home later, exhausted, having spent seven hours cleaning his little boat, as he's selling it. He had caught the sun and hadn't eaten all day but looked happy with his work.

It turned out to be a lovely day. Peaceful and warm. Bliss.

Springtime time lag

I have just about recovered from the time change last weekend that has enabled us to escape British Winter Time, or whatever its name is, so that we can enjoy longer, brighter evenings and see blooms springing up all over the place. The clematis, which has never been pruned and now has a blackbird nesting in it for the second year running, is heavy with shiny green leaves and white, scented flowers. I will miss this sprawling plant when we move later this month. I have let it grow wildly, so it hides the high wall of the building next door, and it has done me proud. If I could take it with me, I would, but it is massive: 20ft high by 20ft across, or more. The new place has a garden that is not shared, so I am looking forward to getting my fork and spade into that.

I don't know if it's the spring thing, but I seem to have developed sleep problems anew. I'm knackered. My head hurts intensely. I feel hot and cold simultaneously and consequently draw up or flick off the duvet for what feels like most of the night. This may be something to do with the weather or light, or something. Sap rising or something.

Diamond sky

I remember some of the dream I had last night. It was one of the most beautiful I've had to date. There were people I love in it, doing things that I can no longer recall. I think, possibly, that I even flew, soared, at one point.

Then, there was one part where I looked up at the sky – in daytime – and saw thousands of stars glittering like diamonds. There was no blue sky, in fact there may well have been cloud, but the sky was breathtakingly stunning with the most scintillating display imaginable. Whatever it all means, it left me feeling uplifted.

Surrealism

I haven't been blogging much of late but that's because I'm having a rather strange time. Some strange-good, some not-so-good, some just plain old good and some not good.

I realise that that doesn't explain anything. I'll explain when I find words that are clear enough. Not sure when that'll be, but it'll be.

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.

The snow bear

I made a snow bear in the local park with S this evening. It was very cold and my fingers were frozen (despite wearing gloves). The bear had little ears and small but thick arms (made of snow). S and I also had a snowball fight. Then we went home and I made dinner and baked a soft chocolate cake with fat, sweet cherries in it.

I have a feeling I am going to have to struggle in to work tomorrow. Oh dear. My journey involves two bus rides and a train journey... Fingers crossed that a) it snows really hard tonight or b) it thaws – now.

White city

Well, I got my wish: road-stopping snow. It's really thick and still falling... London has come to a standstill. I'm meant to be in an office the other side of town but there's no way to get there (it would take three or four hours to walk there, at the very least).

I haven't done any work yet today because no one could get in to prepare the pages that I need to look at. This will mean late nights at work on Thursday and Friday... arrrrgh.

I'm eating lots. Well, it's cold. That's my excuse.

Snow way

I like either a light dusting of snow or a proper road-stopper. None of this mush that melts relatively quickly and then freezes to form a slippery surface upon which I always walk gingerly. I don't like it – especially if I am hustling to work. I like my ground dry and non-slip, thanks very much. Or nice and crunch-crunch-crunchy with deepish snow. You know where you stand with that (literally).

At the moment, it's very pretty. Walking from my friend's home to the pub (to meet other friends for a pub quiz – came second again, for the umpteenth time...) was lovely as the snow flurried around our heads. The sky is now softly glowing and there is an air of quietness. On Monday morning, during rush hour, it may be somewhat different.

Anyway... it's February today. I ask you. How'd that happen? In any case, I hope you have a good one.

January...

...where did you go? Eh? How can it be February on Sunday?

When I got up this morning, I was surprised at the pale pinkish light in the sky. I wondered momentarily what was wrong then realised I was witnessing sunrise.

Virus

It's nearly 4am. I am sitting here with a mug of honey and Lemsip, albeit orange (or sommat) flavour, which makes it more bearable.

I hate colds. They are poo. But I still went to kung fu last night on account of my positive mental attitude: I do not have a cold, I am healthy, I am strong and viruses cannot win!

Bugger.

Forgetfulness or madness?

I cannot believe I asked my friend about his cat, his old faithful moggy, only to be told that he had already told me about the poor animal's death. I feel bad.

I half think he maybe didn't really tell me.

I half think maybe he did and I was in the throes of something that managed to occupy all of my headspace.

That is not good.

Eyes and teeth

I am so tempted to have a moan, as I am tired and a bit blue. But that would not be in keeping with my positive mental attitude, would it?

I swore viciously at people and myself (in my mind, I mean) throughout the day for various reasons (traffic, bad driving, patronising stuff, being shite – yet again – in kung fu) but other than that it was eyes and teeth, eyes and teeth...

Tempus...

This blog will be two on January 15th. How did that happen?

The past two years have been a blur of sleeplessness, sleep, rabbits, rabbit, no rabbit... noise, quiet, overwork, underwork, couch potato-ism, kung fu fighting, anger, and peace of mind, too.

I wish to build on my peace of mind. This is the basis of sanity. It works well with sleep and makes the other things on my list manageable. And I am striving to have a PMA where possible. These things help to minimise the effects of life's variables.

I hope 2009 is being good to you so far.

RIP my sweetest friend

M died today, suddenly following a bout of gastro-intestinal stasis (GI stasis). The onset was shockingly quick. It is all surreal. Part of the reason I am blogging this is to pay tribute to a small dearly-loved friend who was a daily companion with whom I spent more time than any other living thing in the past few years. She was a present from my dear S, who has now come home early from a visit to his mum. M was his first pet and she loved him and he did her.

To have a 'wild' animal sitting by you on a sofa, giving you kisses, snuggling, sitting on your feet as you work (how will I work without her with me? She saved me from loneliness many a time...), resting her paw on your hand (as she did for the first time on her last night with me) is an amazing experience borne of trust. She was clever, bright, fun, sweet, gentle, absolutely beautiful, literally softer than silk, loyal and a blessed spirit-fairy-like lapin. I loved her immensely. We both did.



The other reason for me to blog is this: if anyone is Googling GI stasis or anything along the lines of a rabbit not eating or passing waste matter, take my advice and see a vet immediately. I did as soon as it was apparent that M was unwell (she missed an evening meal and I thought she might have some in the night but she had gone into shock by morning)... her decline was extremely quick, as is the way with rabbits.

I really cannot believe it... she was bouncing around at Christmas and lying next to me on the Saturday evening. I took her to hospital Sunday morning after noting she had not touched her evening food. She died at 9.45am today.

I am suspended somewhere else in the land of 'It's a lie'. She was just three-and-a-half and had otherwise been healthy and active.

I will miss her beyond words.

Happy Christmas

Wishing you a peaceful, warm, healthy and happy Christmas/Yule...

The sun always shines?

Well, the days are getting longer now. Yesterday was the winter solstice, unbelievably. Lately, I have craved springtime due to the coldness that seemed to last week after week whereas I have historically craved autumn for as far back as I can remember and been quite satisfied with its drift from cool, bright days to cold, darker ones.

It's not -18C, as it is in some parts of the northern hemisphere, but it's been quite bitter and, yes, that's fine for winter. But it's the first proper season we've had this year, which is why I'm not too pleased with it. Why this one? Why couldn't we have spring? Or summer? Or autumn? I lust for the coolness of autumn when it follows a hot (or even warm) summer, and I quite like summer when it follows a fresh spring where March is windy and April is showery. This year, and last, we had poor summers. It snowed at Easter this year and autumn was just wet, a slow tapering off of the tepid, dank London summer of 2008. Mediocre weather. It's currently mild and actually quite nice (for midwinter). But I'd swap it for four seasons that feel distinct rather than the rainy mono-season we seem to have had for 24 months.

I realise I am rambling rather a lot about the weather. But I am British – what do you expect?

Anyway, all I'm saying is, right, that I like the cold, the wet, the dank, the sun, the balmy breezes and occasional snow. But not in some bizarre random order. And not just the first three for half the year...

Spring has not sprung...

...but I am currently finishing off an article for the spring issue of a magazine and have just made reference to April 2009 in the text.

It's no wonder I don't know what day it is...

This makes me cry (in a good way)

That's when good neighbours become...

Really. I mean. How long can a cold last?

Still, S and I had a superb afternoon and evening at our friends' home yesterday (they are our next-door neighbours). They cooked a delicious three-course Sunday lunch that started at 2pm and finished at about 10.30pm for us and the couple who live opposite. I was dosed up with various remedies, as I was determined that, having missed out on three social occasions due to mister virus, I would not make it four no-shows. And it was only next door.

The great thing is that the hostess wants to cook for us all again. "Let's do this once a month at least," she said. She is a very good cook. Her scallops were delicately browned, the lamb was tender, the frozen berries with hot white chocolate sauce... Mmm. All washed down with some red wine, prosecco, champagne, and eventually, water and coffee. I have to say, though, I slept not. I think it might have been due to the coffee, which I had weaned myself off while on my sleep programme. I will not be touching the stuff again. I don't even really like coffee. Tea, all the way. And water. Plenty of water...

It was one of those afternoons where I realised how much I love the area I live in – it's a part of London where there is a definite sense of community and friendliness (OK, except for GFG, obviously, who has incidentally ceased her noise after I knocked on the door one night and told them to quit the idiocy). So, anyway, six of us sat around the dinner table and laughed and talked about this and that and nothing in particular. When I stayed with my good friend R recently, she said that 'proper' socialising would not occur in the part of north London she lives in; she knows a few people to say hello to, but there would be no lunches and laughs. It did feel different there. It was different. More transient and hurried, somehow. But London is like that: there are pockets of friendliness, and darker places, where you wouldn't want to stop for too long. Of course, there are in-between places and the ones that are constantly changing, changing, changing. These strands keep the city youthful and interesting. I've had tasters of all of these; they make the capital what it is. I think back to the area in which I last lived (near to where I grew up) and recall hearing a scream down the street, which I later found out was a knifepoint attack. I had no idea; I was in bed, it was just a scream; it was not unusual. Then there was the gunman in the house next door. Oh, and the gangsters who left a man viciously dead in a house-cum-marijuana factory nearby. I also recall when the place I grew up in was all dairies and rag and bone men, sweet shops and bakeries and leather goods sellers. It's changed beyond recognition, some would say for the worse.

Most people I know have moved away from where I grew up. Many don't like it any more. I don't know if I will ever go back there, especially to the road I lived in. My memories are too powerful. The one time I did peek down 'my' road and saw my old front garden, I sat in my car and cried at the sight of concreted-over flowerbeds where stunning red roses, bluebells, tulips, snapdragons, stocks, dahlias, crocuses and marigolds had been tended by my parents. There had been flowers everywhere. So cared for, and now: nothing. Just cars, ugly cars, and concrete. Everyone had flowers in their gardens back then and made time to stop and say hello. We knew all our neighbours, which is why my current fellow road-dwellers are so important to me. If you can talk to, and relate to – and like – the people who share your space albeit a house or two along from your own abode, you feel you are home long before your key turns in your lock...

Fug

My head is full of phlegm. I cannot think. I have done some emailing, a bit of admin, had a work conference call (am working at home) and wrote one Christmas card. I feel too guilty to go to bed, though. And too worried about three looming deadlines.

Sometimes, being self-employed stinks.

Woolworths, old pal

While I waited for the pharmacist at Boots to prepare my penicillin to treat my chest infection (so that explains why the cough has gone on and on...), I wandered over to Woolworths, just for old time's sake (old times' sake?)... Anyway... I went in and had a look around. There was the familiar array of children's toys and games, all bright colours and exciting boxes. Then, there was, of course, the famous wall of Pick'n'Mix with its trays of colourful sugar. I looked at it. It was the same as ever: cola bottles, cola cubes, fudge, toffees, liquorice, chocolate mice, chocolate raisins, fizzy lemon sherbets, pink and yellow twisty things... lots and lots and lots. The rest of the store was nearly bare, stripped of most goods by those eager to get their hands on sale goods before the stores disappear, thanks to the credit crunch, or possibly, due to stupendously bad management. It was sad. It looked neglected, like a home where the residents are moving out swiftly and carelessly.

Visiting my now-local branch of Woolies made me feel somewhat nostalgic, but it is my memories the store in the northwest London high street that I used to visit as a child that evokes a powerful feeling of a time long gone, a largely carefree time. I don't know whether that store is still there but in my mind it is. It had racks of singles – seven-inch and 12-inch versions, albums (on vinyl) and cassettes, too. I used to look at the neatly arranged records and bought my first vinyl disks from there. Woolworths used to be filled with interesting items, the shops were clean, big, organised with items for the home, garden, crockery, books, children's clothes (Ladybird) and games. There was even a cobblers and key cutting service that re-heeled and re-soled shoes for less than £2, not the mad tenner charged in the City these days. It was cared for, it was reliable and you could always go in there for that elusive item. I recall Dad buying blakeys to mend our frequently-worn heels, and tubes of Araldyte, plants, and paint brushes and Cadbury's selection boxes and and and...

People's reaction to Woolworths closing has been largely a sense of sadness that it has to close its doors (and that thousands will lose their jobs). It's one of those stores that has always had a place on most high streets, and has been feature of most of our lives due to catering for children's wants (toys, sweets, music) so well. So, yes, it is like waving goodbye to an old childhood friend with reluctance and a heavy heart. I doubt I'll venture back into Woolies now. I'm all grown up and its shelves are bare. We must go our separate ways.

PIC: PA

Still sniffling

I lay in bed last night/this morning, groaning at the tedium of this cold, wondering if I am now suffering a follow-up episode two cold. I mean, how can one cold last so long? I had taken the maximum amount of Lemsip. And still: tickle, itch, sneeze, cough, cough, cough, uggggggggh.

Tis the season to sniffle

Why is it that I have the lergy again? Argh.

And although I feel rubbish and am 'full of cold' as they say in certain parts, it's not enough to block out the stench of the mouse decaying somewhere in the floor/skirting. I am burning a Diptyque candle to mask the smell, but still, ugh.

Madly driven

I was terrified today, as a friend drove me somewhere via the motorway for a day out. I probably am a bit of a control freak, possibly not helped by having had two car accidents that were not my fault, and been injured as a result (the first one, a head-on crash, gave me a broken collarbone that went undetected as the doctors were more worried I might have broken my spine – thank God it wasn't the case – but I was in a lot of pain; the second was a shunt that made me lose feeling in part of one arm and hand for ages)...

So, anyway, my friend, who I hadn't seen for a while, and I had a lovely day out but the drives to get to and from our destination were hairy. I clenched my fists, grew hot and let the sweat form on my brow and nose. I was absolutely terrified as she put her foot down and went at 80mph-plus in the fast lane all the way, leaving insufficient distance between our vehicle and the one in front should she have had to brake. At some points, she even checked her phone for texts and horrified me by making a call.

I prayed to get back home in one piece. I really did. And I told S to remind me that I must never accept a lift (with this friend) that would take me on any fast roads... She's thankfully never had an accident but I know all too well that they are often caused by events beyond one's control and it's not wise to drive so effing close to the car in front. It's stupid and while I am obviously very fond of my friend, I felt somewhat violated.

When I got home, I relished every little detail of everything at home, home, feeling drained and relieved. I'm not trying to sound melodramatic but I genuinely felt lucky to have escaped unscathed and hope my friend calms the heck down with her driving. I did broach the subject of speed with her (while we were in the car, which is a bit of a racer) but she said she was well within the national average speeds. Hmm. Hmmmmm. Not good enough.

Spooks

Anyone here watch Spooks? It's the BBC drama based on MI5. And it is absolutely fabulous. It manages to be topical to a degree that makes me wonder when on earth they make the show – do they add scenes or dialogue in at the last minute?! It's slick and sharp, set in London, and is unfailingly gripping.

I watched the new episode that was aired on BBC3 last night and, without giving anything away, was sat there in silence as my heart thudded, skin grew clammy and my stomach swam. Sounds like flu, I know, but this was the Spooks effect. The writers are not afraid to lose characters, and this is what makes the show all the more visceral.

Hermione Norris, who plays the ruthless but razor-sharp Ros Myers, was quoted in an interview complaining about the programme's lack of budget. She said it was 'obvious', but I don't think it is. So, the sets are not all that exciting but in a backdrop of one amazing 'set' – London – it's not so bad.

Mmmm, I love it.

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.

Strictly not that big a deal, is it?

The lead item on the news (TV, radio and papers) has been the fact that John Sergeant has quit Strictly Come Dancing.

Is this really news? OK, it is interesting to fans of the show and of Mr Sergeant, who is by most accounts a lovely individual. But the lead item? For two days?

If he was bullied off the show, well, that's just not fair. I can see that some of the judges' comments were rude... But, seriously people, it's just a flipping dance show. Come on...

Am I missing something?

The details are the devil

Baby P, Peter, the little boy whose face has been on many front pages over the past fortnight, is on my mind. When I can't sleep, I sometimes think about him, his situation, the stepfather, the mother, the lodger...

I let myself try to imagine how lonely it must be to have no one in the world. To feel lost. To be cut adrift. To have human needs and feelings and to have them unrecognised, to have them unmet. To be small and have dark secrets. To feel utterly helpless. To not know how to escape. It makes me weep.

As more details emerge, especially the testimony of the lodger's 15-year-old girlfriend, I find myself even more unable to fathom what happened, how another person could possess such a capacity for callousness and evil. I hope there is a hell.

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.

Baby P

EDITED for legal reasons...

Little 'Baby P' suffered so badly that I can barely write about it without feeling sick. He suffered at the hands of his mother and a man who shall remain nameless so that an upcoming trial is not jeapordised.

I am incensed, beyond angry, beyond disbelief, that these social workers and health professionals can ALL have fucked up so royally. What? I even heard a professor of social science or somesuch going on about how social workers did not need to have any common sense, that child abuse is not common sense, so how would common sense help? What in hell's name is this man on about? I was staggered at his crass stupidity and smugness and am blown away by Haringey Social Services, a bunch of self-centred, self-congratulatory, self-obsessed, self-important idiots who failed to have any sense, common or not.

They issued an apology this morning. Bless 'em. So that makes it OK, does it? An apology is worth jack shit UNLESS it is coupled with an assurance that a lesson has been learned, a point taken, or a promise to make amends is made. What planet are these people on? Really? They have all kept their jobs. I know many people who have lost their jobs recently due to cutbacks but these incompetent individuals are still in post. The people of Haringey must be thrilled that their council tax is being spent on such quality, especially following the same social services department's failure to stop Victoria Climbie's relatives neglecting her to death.

And why, why, why... can anyone tell me how the people involved have not been charged with manslaughter at the very least? P died at their hands. I don't understand it. So, mummy dearest will get 14 years (will be out in seven) and the others will get who knows what? The sentencing is due on December 15th.

Sixty visits. Sixty visits. Sixty visits! In eight months, P was visited 60 times. But no one spotted a damn thing. He was literally broken and battered. I cannot think of a single adjective strong enough to describe how appalling the details of this boy's treatment was. The little lad was apparently also conditioned to lower his head to the ground when he was approached by one or both men. The mother, surely a case for sterilisation, said her bloke was "a bit of a nutter" but hey, she "loved him and let him do what he wanted". Fucking freak. I didn't really want to swear in this post. There aren't really any words strong enough.

The mother gave birth to a daughter while in prison over the death of P. The fucking social services shits, the liberal idiots who have nothing resembling a brain cell between them, who have no sense of what is right in this world, and what is to be valued, said that the woman should be allowed to have contact with her new child "as it was her human right to bond with her child". Fucking unbelievable. The whole thing is fucking unbelievable. If you don't know what happened, read this and weep. And for God's sake, get angry.

Hope

Wow. I woke up suddenly after 4am and could feel the vibe. I knew. Obama had to be the winner.

When the alarm went off I switched the radio on and learned that Barack Obama had indeed won the election and is now president elect. I had a bit of a cry.

It's amazing. Exciting, promising and hopeful. This is a great moment.

Exciting

I hope Obama gets in. I have shivers down my spine.

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.

Chocolate heaven

I am baking a chocolate cake using a French recipe that a friend was sent by the people who owned a cottage in which he holidayed recently. The first part of the method involved melting dark chocolate and butter. None of this milk chocolate or margarine lark, I'll have you know. The aroma of the butter softening and the bitter-ish chocolate turning to liquid was incredible.

I added the other ingredients and watched as the rich, possibly quite unhealthy blend glistened as I moved it around the bowl. The texture and colour was fabulous – it put me in mind of the character in Chocolat, which was a better book than it was a film. The sensuousness of the scenes and smells that I imagined in Chocolat was present in my kitchen. It still is.

The buzzer on the oven just went but the cake is not yet done. I will give it another five or ten minutes, to ensure it is solid enough to cut. If it isn't, it won't be a disaster. I licked the slim, sharp knife I poked into the hot cake and it is definitely not cooked. I know it was silly to lick the knife but if you'd have seen what was on that knife, you'd have run your tongue carefully along the blade, too.

A picture of said cake will follow once it is done. I'm just going to sit awhile, in the warmth, inhaling. Mmm.

Flying south

Swallows, calling to each other, have just flown over my corner of London, no doubt going south. I wonder if they will end up near the Canada Geese that took off last night, making noises I have never previously heard. The sky was dark and the air was bitingly cold, as they communicated in a warbling, eerie pitch.

Today, the sun shone for a while but is now hidden behind pale bluey-grey haze. It feels like winter.

Sad yellow flowers

I saw a funeral procession going ahead of my car yesterday. As I turned, I could see that the leading car held a white coffin, probably child-sized. The cars behind were black, shiny and sleek, filled with adults whose faces were hidden with veils and grief.

I could see an arrangement of flowers at the back of the first car. At first I thought it was an initial but as the car turned, it was apparent that the blooms had been made into the shape of a yellow dog with a blue collar. For some reason this choked me.

The sight of the coffin alone had made me feel philosophical but here was a person, possibly a young one, who had owned a dog, their pet, and was now never going to walk or play with it again, or do anything ever.

'Don't pee in your wetsuit'

Why is there a supposedly 'tailored' ad on my email inbox that says this? Eh?

Snakes

My spam inbox, which I clear regularly, just had a message in it telling me to 'grow giant snake in pants'.

No thanks.

Talking of snakes, GFG just passed me in the hallway; she didn't look at me (which satisfies me) but I had a brief, awkward chat with her husband, with whom I have no problem, as yet. I called the police station and left a message with the copper who had come round after GFG had kept us awake all night, saying that they were back. My initial instinct to walk the other way when I saw them at the doorway (going out), as I returned home evaporated swiftly. This is my home, I (and S) have done nothing wrong and I will not be made to feel uncomfortable again.

No thanks.

Coat me in it

There is a coat that I really want. I don't need it. I want it. It's so lovely that when I saw it in the window of the shop I instantly coveted it and, erm, gasped. It's long, warm and very stylish, nipped in at the waist. It's tweed and won't get dirty like my cream winter coat, which has been worn to death and now has a shredded lining and costs a fortune to keep clean.

But it's a bit expensive for a person who doesn't have that much work on. I check the website of the store daily to see if it has been reduced, but it hasn't. I did, however, dream about said coat last night. In fact, I had three or four dreams about the coat. I kept waking up, falling back to sleep and there it would be in my subconscious, tempting me...

Argh. What to do?!

Cold infested – again

Agh, I have yet another cold. It has robbed me of sleep this week and given me a sore nose, chesty cough and too much phlegm for my liking. The virus (above) is amazing looking though, don't you think?

I toyed with the idea of going to kung fu earlier this week but wisely refrained and took to my bed with painkillers washed down with a mug of hot water that had manuka honey and whiskey dissolved in it. It seemed to knock me out. But still, as is the curse of the self-employed, I have had to work... Thank God I am at home and can sniffle about with no make-up on and get out of bed a bit later than I usually do. I am also wrapped up in several badly coordinating tops and a pair of jeans. M, the rabbit, just looks at me, cute as hell, eyes as limpidly affectionate as ever.

S told me I look lovely yesterday evening, though I knew this was far from the truth. Bless him. I was pale and the skin around my eyes is dry and uncomfortable. We ordered a delicious curry this evening. I don't have much appetite or energy but a curry always goes down well and I'm certain it helps to destroy the cold virus. Worth a try, anyway.

Up, up and away

I cycled up a hill that I thought I'd never manage today. I was tired due to a poor night's sleep and had also underestimated the strength of my legs. The day was bright, cool and sunny, reviving me (as did a scrambled eggs, pancakes and tea breakfast).

Leaves turned golden, brown and red around me, and floated down as we cycled over their crunchiness for miles, for hours. Up, up, up we pedalled. And then down, freewheeling, only the possibility of people or animals emerging from trees and shrubbery, keeping our speed down. My eye, still irritated for some reason, watered and wept as the cool wind hit my face – just the one eye dribbling a tear down my cheek. I stopped periodically to wipe it away and then carried on pedalling.

Men and women carried cameras to capture the stunning display of autumn scenery, me not among them this time as I had forgotten my Canon. You could see Canary Wharf, the London Eye, the Gherkin, all so clearly. It was beautiful.

At home, we had cups of tea and teacakes, then went to my local pub with family and friends and came second in the quiz. What a delicious day.

Focus and pressure

I've slept well since we complained to the police and GFG went on her holidays. The stress of Monday night/Tuesday morning was immense... I felt as though I had run a marathon and was in recovery for at least two days afterwards.

I went to kung fu to get rid of my pent up adrenaline through the sheer physicality of the exercise and to do the best bit, sparring. It felt as though something had clicked in my head as I blocked blows and dealt them. I did get my fair share of whacks but I stood my ground more than I have in ages and actually earned praise from my instructor, N, for showing improvement.

Having confronted the GFG creature and slept well, I felt sharper. I forced myself to think of the things that were annoying me (which wasn't difficult) and visualised myself batting it all away. It seemed to work. I was bopped on the head, face, stomach, and various other spots, but that's all part and parcel of it.

N later said that I needed to be put under pressure to spar. It's true that I am best under pressure. I like a challenge; I find work that's brainless tedious. I like having deadlines; my ears prick up when someone tells me something can't be done. I'm not a rebel (or, if I am, I always have a cause) but I think there's very little in this world that's impossible, if you put your mind to it.

Calm after the storm

The calm before the GFG vs Us Upstairs storm wasn't really calmness. It was more a case of holding one's breath and counting to 1,000,000. Well, it did go on for many months until the point of no return, which is when the police were called in.

Now, GFG is on holiday presumably. She trundled out of the premises (after keeping us awake till past 4am), with a large case, looking fresh-faced, don't-care-ish and obviously thinking she can do what the hell she likes. We were bemused at her attitude. It was simply incredible. This is the trouble when you are a reasonable person. You give other people the benefit of the doubt and can't really concieve that others can knowingly behave so horribly and mean it. You live and learn. And she obviously thought our reasonableness was tacit compliance/the surrender of the bullied.

Having got the police and council involved, though stressful in itself, has bestowed a certain amount of calm on the situation. There was no alternative. Some people can't communicate, won't communicate and are reprehensible, so it's best to let the officials take over.

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.

Showdown

The door slamming went on and on and on and on – until around 3.30am. We went to bed after speaking to the police, who said that they were busy (it was a full moon) but insisted that they did intend on getting someone out to us. As it happened, they called us at around 4.10am and suggested we get some sleep and said someone would come round later today.

Anyway, this morning, at 7am, the door SLAMMING started again. We shook in our beds (through anger and the vibration, not fear) wondering why and how life had become so strange. Can you believe it? We couldn't.

* just had a call from the police apologising for the delay and saying they will be sending someone around; I have to say, they have been pretty good at calling us back *

S and I cannot believe things are the way they are. We lay in bed as GFG ram-raided her way through the early morning, feeling sick and tired and bemused. We have done nothing – really, nothing! – to deserve this treatment. It's appalling. My stomach hurt and my head (dulled now by painkillers) throbbed. I had looked forward to today being productive and enjoyable. But all I am doing now is popping pills, drinking caffeine, waiting for the police and council to get back to me and, oh, yes, trying to write a piece (on stress) for a deadline today. Can't concentrate. Funny, that.

We had a feeling GFG might be on her way out to work, or somewhere, so S waited at the bottom of our stairs, inside our flat, and stepped out when she opened her door. He asked her if she was going out "because we called the police after the continual noise and they will want to speak to you..." She actually feigned surprise and looked at S as though he was talking Swahili. Barefaced in the extreme. As much as I would have liked to have punched her (and I punch pretty damn hard) I am not an especially violent person and don't want to end up with a police record because of her.

I immediately went down and asked her what the noise was all about, she kept on about "I'm on my way to the airport. I have to go," whilst S (who kept his composure remarkably well) said: "It was quite deliberate, what you did, that noise last night." I added: "You kept us awake all fucking night. What is your problem? What have we ever done to you? You know I have insomnia and you did that?!" The all-too-brief conversation, such as it was, ebbed between S telling her she was a liar, a despicable human being and a nasty piece of work, me asking what the fuck was going on, and GFG saying she was off to the airport and that "she would have let us know" if it was deliberate. Amazing, utterly incredible.

Watch this space.

Police

I've had enough of GFG's door slamming. So far, it's gone on until 1.30am, so I called the police (at about 1am) and am awaiting their arrival. I had earplugs in but still her blatant malicious SLAMMING, which shakes our home, woke us up. The SLAMMING has been going on all evening. I shouted at her to stop but it doesn't have an effect. Neither does the polite approach (tried that months ago).

My chest tightened horribly and my blood pressure must have gone through the roof; I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my body. I can't keep letting this happen. I will blow a fuse. I was having a nice peaceful evening watching telly and then she started (S was out). I have a deadline tomorrow and the actions of that selfish, immature little c*nt will now fuck up my day. It has gone on for months, the best part of a year. Too long.

I have fucking well had enough. ENOUGH.

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.

Icy times

Talk about stress. I have a smallish amount of savings – from the sale of a flat and many years of hard work – in Icesave. I was gutted/stunned when I heard the bank went bust yesterday – especially when I couldn't access my 'easy access' cash. I have even developed a stress-related dry skin condition (nice, huh?) But this morning, as I sat glued to the computer listening to Gordon Brown and Alistair Darling, panic lifted.

Thank God they're going to cover savings. I'm finding work hard to come by as it is, and losing hard-earned savings would have been too horrible to boot. I spend time looking for good deals when supermarket shopping and have reined in my unnecessary expenditure where possible, so losing a huge amount of my money would have hurt. Badly. Oh, and any plans I had to visit Iceland are no more. I won't be spending any cash in a country that stuck two fingers up to me and other UK investors when it came to the question of compensation. Bastards.

Regardless of Icesave, I've been avidly watching or listening to the financial news (is there any other, beyond the US elections?!). It's addictive. God knows what will happen next. Is this really all the result of the US money men being complete morons?! The tectonic plates that have seemingly kept the economy going are sliding all over the place, giraffe-on-ice style. I'm half scared, half intrigued and overall, very pleased we didn't buy a new place last year.

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.