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.
Tuesday, 3 May 2011
Monday, 2 May 2011
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 Thursday, 14 April 2011
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?
Wednesday, 13 April 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, 10 March 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, 8 February 2011
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.
My shoulders have springs coiled inside the sinews. I can feel them snapping, tightening, acid curdling.
Sunday, 6 February 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, 15 May 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, 10 January 2010
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!
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!
Friday, 8 January 2010
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.
Sunday, 3 January 2010
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...
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...
Thursday, 10 September 2009
Workshy
I am procrastinating.
I don't want to work. I want to sleep.
I, do, however, need money.
I must, therefore, work.
Bugger.
I don't want to work. I want to sleep.
I, do, however, need money.
I must, therefore, work.
Bugger.
Wednesday, 9 September 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, 5 September 2009
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...
I've not had such a relaxed day in years. I didn't think I knew how...
Friday, 4 September 2009
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!
It is autumn!
Thursday, 3 September 2009
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...
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
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.
----------------
Listening to: Talk Talk - Life's What You Make It
Friday, 14 August 2009
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.
Friday, 24 July 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, 30 June 2009
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?
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?
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