How Am I?

I found myself asking myself, "How am I?" just now. When I realised I was running my fifth bath this week, and that nightly baths is something I only do when I'm quite chilled out and not running around every evening doing mad Doingy Stuff right the way up till way past bedtime.

So I thought, "Does this mean I'm all right?"

Well, maybe. I'm still jittery though, not very relaxed. My life at the moment is like this big long walk through a whole Load Of Stuff which keeps being there and not going away, like Trying To Have Babies and Trying To Get Published and Trying To Be A Mum and Trying To Earn A Living, all crowding around me and being a bit much. But then I thought, isn't this just what my life is always like, with me constantly trying to Do Things all the time and Making Plans and looking forward to tomorrow, next week, next year when everything will be Sorted Out because of all this stuff I'm putting myself through in the here and present, but I never actually arrive?

Hmm.

Ah well.


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The Tunnel

Me and Felix have been having lots of mother-son-bonding school holiday fun. Running in and out of the fountains in Piccadilly Gardens and getting soaking wet, making weird shapes with his body in Cirt Art Gallery's right-angled mirrors, visiting Stockport Hat Museum and then, today, going in search of tunnels.

According to yesterday's Manchester Evening News, some builders discovered a tunnel, a home-made, and well-made, tunnel. With electric light, ventilation, proper scafoolding reinforcement and room to walk in. With a wheelbarrow and shovels, and an entrance covered by wood and earth. Its apparent destination? A cashpoint in a Blockbuster video store.

So me and Felix went looking for it, and found it. I was of course tempted to scale the fence surrounding the building site and have a closer look, but being in charge of a 5-yr-old as I was, common sense prevailed.

The tunnel was about 20 metres long and they had only another 5 metres to go. They must have been at it for weeks. The police couldn't work out what they'd done with all the earth. And having visited the site this is even more inexplicable: as far as I can see there was no eay access to where the tunnel must have started. No alleyways or gates, just railway embankment and high walls and fences. Did they have their own train?? Did they wear fluorescent workmen's clothing and stroll around blatantly (amazing what you can get away with if you're wearing a uniform)? What did they think when the builders turned up on the adjacent vacant plot and started digging? Were they watching? Did they work on the site themselves?

Intriguing stuff. And is this the kind of thing that sticks in a 5-yr-old's mind? You're always aware that you might be forming memories, but probably not the ones you think.

Brilliant.


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Notes #2

Said by Ally, late one night: "When we all tell you to stop living in the future and live in the here and now, maybe you should just tell us all to fuck off cos you're not happy in the present, you belong in the future!"

This was after I stopped planning ahead and manically trying to Get Somewhere and just sat around reading books for a while instead, and it made me much more miserable. That's the thing, you see: I enjoy making plans.

Still, and this is not a new observation, but that's because it rings true: Human beings really aren't very good at happiness. It's not just me that regularly fails to be happy, even when conditions are apparently conducive. And one of the things we're really bad at is knowing what will make us happy. Money is the obvious one, but there's also other things, like career progression, children, bigger houses, all those things we strive towards and then whinge about once we have them.

I've been saying for ages that I wanted to be a full time writer. And now I am, and do nothing but complain about it. What's that all about? Huh? I despair of me, I do.

Well, anyway. On this same piece of note paper I've written: "Ally having gleeful messy fun making pancakes."

It was last Wednesday, I think: After I'd collapsed in sobs for an hour, and Ally diverted all resources to cheering me up. We invited our new neighbour Viv round, drank beer, smoked, and talked nonsense. And then it was late at night and I had the munchies very specifically: a sudden craving for pancakes. But there was no way I was going to make any.

"I could make some," said Ally.

I looked at him with disbelief. Traditionally it's me who does the whole making-things-from-scratch thing. Pancake batter, pastry, pizza dough, jam: it's my preserve (ho ho).

"Nah," said I. "You don't know how."

"Tell me then," said he.

Ten minutes later I walked past the kitchen on my way to the loo, and there he was, covered in flour and grinning happily.

And the pancakes were delicious.


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Notes #1

I found this jotted in one of my many pads:

"I'm sure I remember once having a really good memory, but I'm not sure I trust my memory."


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The Reality

OK, so that was me being all Impressive and Sensible and Level-Headed and all that, but just as I can't decide whether The Answer lies in Getting On With Stuff or Taking It Easy, I also get a bit stuck on the whole body/food/relaxation thing.

On the one hand, I understand the connection between body and mind, and I want to be as healthy as possible in preparation for procreation, and I reckon I'd feel better if I didn't have all this sludgey stuff walloping about around my bones.

But then again... sometimes I just want a piece of cake. And I like it, and it likes me, and it's nice to have a treat. And if I was REALLY on the ball, I'd have it all sussed so that once or twice a week I could sit down to an entirely-above-board cup of tea and slice of cake. But I'm not on the ball, in fact I'm pretty hopeless, cos I'm a bit depressed and that makes me tired and vague and confused and inefficient, so I keep eating stuff I'm not supposed to, and then give myself a hard time about it, and then give myself a hard time for giving myself a hard time, and then I think OH FUCK IT how the hell can I be expected to diet as well as all the other stuff I'm trying to do, and anyway if I get pregnant won't I put a load of weight on, so what's the point?

So I change my mind and decide maybe I'm not dieting, because after all mummy-tummies are snuggly and nice and there's this great fashion at the moment for loose tops which balloon out over the waist area and hide all unwanted flesh, and I'm only a stone or so overweight and really worse things happen at sea...

...but then I decide I'm dieting again...

Pah.


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The Sudbery Diet

I do like the way you all worry about me in my comments boxes. It's very sweet.

The only problem is my ever-so-strong independence gene. As soon as people start expressing concern or giving advice my instinct is to shout NO, I'M FINE, I DON'T NEED YOUR HELP because I am such a very big girl who can manage perfectly well on her own and always knows what she's doing and never needs anyone's assistance, ever.

So in that spirit, I have been having strong urges to prove that I Am Very Clever And Sensible and respond to the commenter who was worried about me dieting.

Because I do know that crash dieting is bad for you and that lowered blood sugar levels can be a major contributory factor to mood swings and depression and, you know, I hate the idea that people might think I don't know stuff...

Ahem. So anyway. I have decided to tell you about the Patented Sudbery Diet, which I've probably told you about before, but what the hell, I'm telling you again. This is how it works:

1. DO NOT COUNT CALORIES, particularly if you have an obsessive nature. You will go mad. Seriously. Stop it.

2. DO NOT WEIGH YOURSELF, particularly if you have an obsessive nature... (see number one).

3. DO NOT GO HUNGRY. You know when you get those cravings for chocolate and/or crisps? Stop and ask yourself: Did you have breakfast? Did you have lunch? Might you possibly be HUNGRY? Of course you are, ya daft 'a'p'th. Go and eat some toast.

4. Are your clothes getting looser? Yes? Then you are losing weight. Well done. If they're getting tighter, you might have water retention, or bloating, or be pregnant, or you may not be following rule 5 properly...

5. Only four treats a week. This is the hardest part of the diet. Treats are anything you put in your mouth that isn't Sensible Food. You are allowed to have as many snacks as you like, as long as they are things like wholegrain toast (with a smidgeon of marg) or, you know, something sensible. But alcohol (up to three pints) counts as One Treat, as does a packet of crisps or a piece of cake.

6. Eat sensibly. At least three meals a day. Eat when you're hungry. Eat healthy food. Stop worrying about calories or fat or any of that rubbish, just eat proper meals and not junk food.

7. Exercise. Well, duh. My personal rule is I have to do four exercisey things a week, and if I were really mean I'd tie it to the number of treats, but I'm not, so I don't.

So, you know. As Non-Working Monkey might say: Eat less rubbish, do more exercise. It's foolproof. Except that I'm not losing any weight. But that might have something to do with the chocolate supply in the kitchen drawer and my rather-loose interpretation of rule 5...

Seriously though. You don't have to worry about me. I don't believe in faddy diets.

But I do hate my body, and my body hates me. Just an ordinary woman then. [sigh]


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Big Stretched Sighs (and Thighs)

Some snapshots:

1. Felix is eating his tea on his own in the kitchen. I am in the room next door, sobbing in a silent hiding-it-from-the-innocent kind of way, dabbing at tears with bog roll, hoping my eyes won't be too red when I emerge, hoping I won't snap and wince and cringe.

2. Felix is chattering away in the back of the car, and I am getting that stretching feeling of despair, as the inside of my face elongates desperately with the contrast of His Happy Chat and How I Am Feeling.

3. Yoga, tonight. Not able to do it, and this is a first. I can always do yoga. It's good for me. It makes me feel better. But tonight the can't-be-bothered don't-care want-to-hide-in-a-hole me was obstinate and sulky and refused to find the energy or motivation. Would only move slowly. Stiffly. Couldn't relax and breathe.

4. Big Sighs. All the time. And eyes with sagging lids, and a downward-pointing chin.

So, I'm acknowledging that I'm maybe, probably, you know, a bit depressed.

And it makes me grumpy and vague and fucking hell, but looking after a young child is hard when you feel like this.

The other weekend I couldn't work out why I was so vague, so confused, so forgetful, so clumsy. So terribly-terribly tired. So tearful. So unable to make basic decisions. I, experienced hypochondriac that I am, had a list of possible causes: 'Flu, perhaps, or pregnancy. And then I thought, well, these are all symptoms of depression. But nah, I wasn't depressed. I mean, I knew I collapsed the week before in tears so extreme I couldn't walk or talk and had to run away in the middle of cooking tea so that I could sob for an hour in my study, but... well, that was a one-off.

And then last weekend I went camping, and complained about how stressed out I was, how difficult I was finding everything, and my friends said yes, Clare, you're depressed. Go easy on yourself.

And that's all very well, and I keep trying to do that, pull back on the demands, relax the schedule, give myself a break.

I have a schedule, you see. Things I must do to make a living from writing. It's got a lot of stuff on it, and I expect to be able to do it all in a short space of time, and it's terrifying me. And I can't prioritise, can't decide which things are most important, which ones really matter. It all really matters. And I keep coming up with an order of priorities, and then changing my mind, and changing my mind again...

And then I decide on Ways Of Coping. Like when I said I was going to sack all the admin and Just Write, because that would make me happy. But I didn't do it. I kept coming up with excuses. Because one of my many fuck-ups is a collapse in confidence. And when I don't think I can write, I can't write.

So then I decided the answer was to take all those timing estimates and double them. And then I thought maybe I should chuck them out the window, just Do Stuff, then time it and see how long it takes. And then I thought, fuck it, it's the summer, I'll just do stuff that makes me happy and worry about the serious stuff in the autumn. But nothing makes me happy. And, goal-driven future-living woman that I am, the one thing more guaranteed to make me more miserable than anything else is Being Idle. And everyone keeps telling me off for living in the future, and telling me I need to learn how to live in the present, and that I should be happy because this redundancy is bound to be a good thing, and objectively everything is fine, and really there's nothing to worry about...

...except that I lost a baby, and a job, and my book still isn't published.

New Year's Eve, 2007: My Grand Plan, to have a baby, to publish my book. I failed. It doesn't matter that I can still get pregnant, that I might still find a publisher. I failed. And the only other thing in my life that was certain, the job, the career in IT... that's gone too. And all I'm left with is maybes and possiblys that I can't believe in. And I don't know what the future holds and I feel like I should be sorting it out, like I always do, except I don't have the faintest clue how. Don't want to. Want to hide.

And I say to myself things like Be Nice To Yourself, and Get On With It, and Just Do Your Best, cos that's all you can do, but how do I decide between Taking It Easy and Being Productive? How do I know whether to Stop Wallowing or Stop Denying My Emotions? How do I know whether I'm only depressed because I'm constantly examining myself for signs? What if it's a self-fulfilling prophecy? What if I wasn't depressed until people told me I was depressed?

People say to me, of course you feel sad, you lost a baby. And I think, but that was three months ago, I should be over it by now, I'm sick of it, I want to be over it, and anyway I don't think it's as simple as that. Yes, I lost a baby, and it hurt, and it still hurts. But I also lost a book, and a job, and a future, and all my fucking certainty. And I still don't know whether I'm denying the feelings of baby-loss because I don't believe it should be a big deal. Because it was never a baby, because I can still have another.

And I can't relax, because the sums don't add up. The redundancy money isn't enough to cover a float for the late-paying clients and the start-up months and sick leave during pregnancy and maternity leave.

And then there's my body. Fat, refusing to get any thinner, and I want to comfort-eat but I can't cos I'm on a diet which is doing no fucking good and I'm not losing any weight, and I'm knackered just climbing the stairs, and I'm not getting enough exercise, and if I were to wait until my mind and body were ready I'd never have another child.

And what about babies? What about illness? What about the devil (60% chance of debilitating illness for months during pregnancy) and the deep blue sea (miscarriage)? What about the fact that NOT being ill can be a sign of a pregnancy gone wrong (as it probably was last time)? What about the fact that stress is bad for pregnancy, bad for babies, bad for mums? What about the fact that the day before I was offered redundancy my plan was to go back to work, put everything else aside, keep my head down, live a simple life and recuperate? What about the fact that every plan I've made this year has fallen through spectacularly?

And I'm wandering through life like a zombie, the tears hovering constantly, my concentration shot, my worries constant, my brain full of pain and cotton wool, telling myself no, don't succomb, it doesn't have to be like this, it'll go away, it always does, you can do it, you always do, ignore it, tell it to go away, keep going and sometimes I catch a glimpse of beautiful sky or an earful of saturating chords and the loveliness makes me ache and only hurt the more.

And now I've let it out, so maybe I can make it go away. Or should I just give in, let the tears have their way? Purge or wipe?

Pah, harumph and oh bloody hell.

That's all.


___

Saving and Profligacy

Sometimes I get the feeling that I'm constantly failing to be abstemious, on all fronts of my life.

- I keep eating stuff I shouldn't, and can't manage the hands-by-sides don't-eat-that thing that just might result in a few measly pounds disappearing from my now-rather-ample frame.

- I keep spending money I sort-of-can but can't-not-really afford to spend. This is a bit of a bummer, this one. I have a generous redundancy payment, but I also know it's going to take me several months to get to a point where I'm earning any money at all, let alone a decent living, so I really need to hang on to it and stop bloody spending it. And then there's pregnancy and the possible illness and inability to earn, not to mention maternity leave... I shouldn't be spending this money. But I am. Bother.

- Time. I keep spending time, when I should be saving it. I don't have so much of it each day, and I keep trying to do far more things than I have hours for.

- Resources. I keep using stuff up.

Bother all round, really.


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Big Life Changes

I just had one of those stoned revelations that is stupid-obvious but still a revelation, and it is this:

If you want to be happy, you have to do stuff that makes you happy.

But before I explain, I must wind back a bit, to this afternoon, when that Big Life Change I've been alluding to was suddenly getting me down.

This weekend I was suffering from headaches, intense fatigue, a vague ineffective brain, and tearfulness. I pondered various explanations: Pregnancy, the 'flu, too much weeding. And then I realised: I was just depressed. Next thing I knew, I was collapsing in tears. Again.

Luckily another thing happened today: News of my Big Life Change became official. Which means I can tell you about it. If I want. But I've been wondering what you've been thinking it was. You might have thought a baby, but I've contradicted that. Perhaps you thought my book was being published, but no, not that. I guess you could have decided my relationship had collapsed, but it ain't that. I could have been moving house for some reason, but I'm not. So, maybe you thought it was my job?

Yup, I took voluntary redundancy about five weeks ago. It was very sudden. One minute I was resolving to start focusing on work again, the next my boss called me in and put a generous redundancy package on the table, and four days later I had left work altogether.

And since then I've decided to be a full time freelance writer, and I'm shitting myself. I've been panicking about whether I can really make a go of this, and have battered myself over the head with You Must Earn Money Really Fast exhortations and set myself unrealistic targets and planned within six weeks to have balls in motion to do children's fiction, erotic fiction, journalism, technical writing, short stories, storytelling, editing, creative writing workshops and reviewing... and there's so much admin involved in all these things that there's no time left for the doing of them...

...and on top of everything else that's happened this year, it's both exactly what I need and Really Rather Fucking Daunting, thank you very much, and anyway...

...so that's when I came up with the Stoned Revelation. That I have plenty of money to keep me going for a few months, that I should sack all the admin for now and just do what I desperately want to and fucking can do, for the first time in ages...

...that I should go ahead and write. Because that would make me happy.

And that's what I'm going to do.


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I Like My Car

What I was trying to say was that, although I am supposed to be doing other stuff, I have decided instead to write about my car.

Because this weekend I drove my car to the countryside and back, and while in it I thought about how much I like it, and how reprehensible it is, and how guilty I feel about it. And then I read Anna's post saying similar things about planes, and I decided to post about it.

My main thought was about the disconnect which often exists between the moral standing of a thing and its subjective meaning. Ooh, that sounded quite impressive (if slightly confusing).

What I mean is, I like being in a fast portable comfortable pod, which belongs to me and allows me leisurely privacy whilst simultaneously giving me a view on the world. And OK, so some people say it encourages alienation and isolation, and they may have a point, but it's good to have a bit of space now and then. There's nothing wrong with enjoying your own company.

And you can whizz (within reason) round bends, and up and down hills, and go "wheeee!" and admire the scenery, and listen to music (the new Prince album has moments of wonderfulness but is mostly boring, Amy Winehouse is great, I'm sorry about buying the Mail on Sunday but I did put it straight in the bin and reasoned I was actually doing the world a favour as now one less person will be able to read their rubbish, ooh and Digitalism are fantastic), and think thoughts, and maybe have a bit of a cry, and laugh at the mud-splattered racing vehicle with "If you can read this please turn me upside down" written in upside-down letters, and have Great Ideas and generally have a few little moments apart from the world.

There's nothing so bad about any of that.

But it fucks up the environment.

But it doesn't fuck up the environment because of singing and music and crying and thinking and looking at the view, it fucks up the environment cos of fossil fuels and stuff. And plastic, and Too Much Stuff, and all that jazz.

So, what I was thinking is that I shouldn't be apologetic that I enjoy all the things that come with Driving A Car, because there isn't anything objectively wrong with all of those things.

But still, it's hard for me to make statements like "I Like My Car" without people instantly making judgements.

It wouldn't have been practical for me to make the same journey on a train, for many reasons. Just so's you know. But that stinks, and shouldn't be so. And there are many ways in which the world could be organised so that I wouldn't have had to make that journey in a car. And that would be a Good Thing.

But, you know, if they ever sort it out (and of course they should)...

I'll miss my car.


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Self Harm

Just read it.


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Quietude

I don't have much to say at the moment.

My head is full of stuff, but a lot of it is angsty and none of it is new. I have a full-up head.

I worry about the future, about the fact that I worry about the future, about the fact that I can't stop planning even when none of the plans can work, even when the planning itself stresses me out, even when what I should really be doing is taking it easy and trying not to worry...

But doing nothing makes me worried. Being active, planning for the future, they are the thing that make me happy, until I tip over that individual fulcrum and they just make me worry some more.

Balance is the obvious answer, but balance is one of the things I am so rubbish at I can't even remember it's good. I alway look to extremes, for problems, for solutions, for explanations. Nothing is ever grey, unless I can go to the extreme of painting everything grey.

Well, anyway. I have other stuff wot I wrote before my head got simultaneously too full and too empty all at once, so I shall post that stuff here. And when I stop worrying about stupid things I shouldn't be worrying about, I'll try my old head-dump strategies again.

Pah. I am a very silly woman.


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See, I told you... Rubbish!

Oh, for fuck's sake.

So they said we could do drugs or operations or nothing, and we decided to do drugs, but then my body beat us to it so we decided not to do drugs after all, except that my womb was having a good old larf and took the opportunity to shut down and do absolutely fuck all for a week or so, so we plumped for the drugs option again, and stuffed me full of this-actols and that-exes and the-other-ums but STILL nothing happened and now here I am...

Here I am. Having had contractions all day and nurses examining every squirt, splodge or gromit that issued forth from my nether regions, no matter how smelly or vile, but none of it NONE of it has been blood or guts or womb linings, and they say it'll probably happen over the weekend but the contractions stopped hours ago and I just know that next Friday when they scan me again they'll tell me it's STILL not over, and after over three weeks of blood and gore and pain they're going to tell me that it was all for nothing and I'll have to have a fucking D&C* which is what I was trying to avoid all along and may as well have had in the first place.

Or not.

I mean, this may well be what is known in the trade as A Catastrophic Thought, or Several Disastrous And Utterly Paranoid Ramblings, but, well, you know.

Pah.



*Surgical procedure. Apparently quick and simple, but many risks involved.


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Dinna Fash Y'Sen

Don't worry, I'm really not the type.

Because if you, like me, are prone to being convinced that your nearest and dearest are surely on the brink of becoming alcoholics / have caught some kind of rare cancer / are about to announce their allegiance to The God Of Snarfoo, then my previous post, and various other things I've said recently, will have you angsting about some kind of horrible addiction I'm about to catch cos of Being Bereaved or something.

But in fact I seem almost incapable of becoming addicted to anything. Despite being ever-so-slightly-mad and generally unhinged, I've never developed a habit for anything worse than Red Bush tea. My heart simply isn't it.

But I can't deny that just now, just for a few days...

I'm enjoying my beer.


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Hedonism

I've always felt rather in awe / jealous of people who can get really off their faces and want to / can go on drinking for hours and hours and hours...

I've always been both mentally and physically incapable of it. And yet, now, suddenly, I'm one of them.

And why? Because I desperately want to escape, to anaesthetise myself. Which is such a cliched explanation for this type of behaviour, I can barely bring myself to type it out.

But in my case it's true.

But also fun. Great fun, in fact.

Hmmm.


___

Stubborn or Pragmatic?

I like to think of myself as philosophical; prone to rationalisation. Looking on the bright side.

A very high percentage of pregnancies don't make it to twelve weeks.

It happens all the time.

I knew it was a possibility.

It wasn't my fault. I was well-behaved to the point of obsession. I did all the things you're supposed to do when you're pregnant, and then some. I couldn't have done any more to protect my unborn child.

Just because something went wrong this time, means nothing for any future pregnancies. A very many people have miscarriages followed by healthy babies.

It probably meant something was seriously wrong. It's better that my body dealt with it early in a natural way, rather than facing difficult decisions later on.

It gives me more breathing time, before doing the baby thing again.

It's not unusual for people to get pregnant again very quickly.

It's not helpful to fall apart. There's a lot to look forward to. Stress is bad, calmness is good. I'm fine, I'll be fine.

These are the things I think. I'm a logical person. OK, I'm emotional too. But I like to reason things through. And it's a helpful tendency at times like this. I can give myself reasons to feel all right, and it makes me feel all right.

But there are emotions there too. Loss: Of plans, of potential, of bumps. If I want to I can talk about babies, and small hands. I have a strong capacity for drama, for exaggeration, for hysteria. I could hype it up, wind myself up, very quickly and easily if I let myself. But I don't want to. I don't think it helps.

But when the emotions beat the logic, I don't even know whether it's me, or just the hormones. I'm in a right old grump at the moment for instance, and it's got the external jittery edge of PMT. Which it more or less is.

But is it unhealthy to be as calm, as cheerful, as matter of fact about the whole thing as I am being? Am I really coping well, or just refusing to dip down below the surface. There's only so long you can stand on a surfboard. Eventually your legs will give way, or the tide will carry you to shore.

I was so pleased with myself, for not getting hyperemesis. But it could have been a sign that all was not well. Which is deeply ironic. I nearly died when I was pregnant with Felix, I was so ill. This time I was glad to escape near-death, and yet my good health may have been a symptom of ill health on the part of the pregnancy. Pah.

And now, of course, I have to go through all that again. Preparing for serious illness, and months of debilitation. The chance that I'll get ill is still 60% - i.e. more likely than not. Pah again. But that's one of the things I'm refusing to think about.

This post was interrupted by a phone call from a friend, who said that I can be repressed if I want. I don't have to be super-well-adjusted, I can be a mess. That's ironic too - that my calm pragmatism may in fact be evidence that I'm maladjusted. Ha. That's funny.

I've just done three long phone conversations in a row, and I'm knackered. And bored of talking about this. I have bags to pack. See you in a few days.


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Random Feelings

Images. There are pictures associated with all this stuff. A foetus curled up on a computer screen, a tiny hand in a public toilet. When I contemplate their impact, I think of initial reactions. To the first: curiosity, followed by sobbing when the picture was joined by explanations. To the second: detached curiosity. What I forget is that images stay with you, to be re-examined, often whether you like it or not. And reactions can change. The level of distress caused by the image is not constant or predictable.

Curiosity. I come from a family of scientists; questions are bred into me. I think it does Ally's head in sometimes. I can see why. I keep asking about things which might seem, well, tasteless. I'll spare you the detail, but there are a lot of biological matters and, well, matter, to be curious about. I know a lot of people would react differently.

Words. In a conversation with Ally last week, I wanted to make reference to the first image mentioned above. The one on the computer screen. I couldn't find a way of referring to it that wasn't loaded with pain, pathos or bad taste. In the end I just said, "that thing we had to see".

Pain. Yesterday I found myself hoping the cramps would start again, so that I could take more co-codamol. And then I realised the tablets were treating more than one kind of pain. But still I refused to cry.

Reactions. I felt as though a friend was chastising me for not exhibiting more pain. She was worried that I was repressing my emotions, that I was pushing myself too hard. I am stubborn, I'll admit that. Determined to be strong. Sympathy, in the flesh, standing in front of me and not giving me the choice to respond at leisure (as it does when it comes in email or online form) makes me impatient and squirmy. I cry when I want to. Not on demand.

Today. Another scan. "Retained products of conception". It doesn't mean much - just that it's not quite over yet. A bit more ickiness to come, but the worst has passed. Not enough to prevent us going to Wales. This means we are now in "Conservative Management of Miscarriage" territory, and have opted out of "Medical Management". I object to the terminology. I have never been conservative in my life.

Waiting Rooms I. This time we read, and didn't talk. Occasionally I laid my head on his shoulder, just to say Yes, I'm here with you, you're important. Physical contact can mean so much. I've started reading The Plain Truth, which I love. Interestingly enough, it contains the term "retained products of conception", which I read therein yesterday, and was intrigued by, all the more so when I saw it reappear on the radiologist's report today. The Plain Truth contains subject matter which is disturbingly connected to my own life right now, but it's everywhere. Babies, pregnancies, small children. You can't escape them. They're part of life.

Waiting Rooms II. A fascinating exchange between Farting Burping Mother who had just had a hysterectomy, and Shouting Daughter who was angry with the whole world, including her mum, including the taxi driver who drove away because Shouting Daughter had nipped out to buy paracetamol for Mother, who claimed she had Gone Shopping. "Shopping! Where are my shopping bags then, eh? Shopping!" and "It's your fault for making me buy paracetamol!" and "Shut up and stop whingeing!"

Incohe

Getting increasingly incoherent now.

I wanted to say something about confidence, and something about list shows.

The challenge now is to rememeber what those two things are. But it was definitely a good move to write down what I was planning to say in advance. It's what you're supposed to do when you write an essay for A level French - start by telling them what you're going to say, then say what you're going to say, then tell them what you just said. I always thought that was all about structure, sense and some kind of aesthetic. But now I think it's a cunning way of giving a bit of a leg-up to alcoholics and other people who are mentally disadvantaged. Like women who are in the middle of a miscarriage and are a bit monged out on co-codamol, paracetamol, John Smith's Extra Smooth and Manchester's finest pollen. If you start out by writing what you are planning to write, you won't then find yourself halfway through the piece on some kind of massive tangent and with no clue what the hell you're supposed to be writing about.

So, confidence. And list shows.

Wtf?

Oh arse, I committed a cardinal error. I didn't expand. How the hell am I supposed to know what that means?

Confidence. Hmmm. Ah, it's coming back to me... something about how I'm more confident to do something or other... yes. I've got it. I don't normally document my life in detail, and am increasingly reluctant to be honest about everything that happens, because there are too many people reading and I don't know who they are.

But the thing which has broken that barrier is so much more personal and raw than any of the things I've hesitated to write about. And suddenly I'm being all honest and open and documenting every minute. I haven't done that for ages.

Well, yes. That was it, really. A half-formed thought.

And the other thing. List shows. I can't see a connection, to be honest. That's probably because there wasn't one. But we do like list shows, chez Sudbery-Fogg. Tonight we have watched The 450 Top Comedians' Comedians and are now on the Top Most Annoying Songs you Hate To Love.

Even a film would seem long at three hours. But list shows... the entertainment just goes on and on. The concept will never disappointment.

You think I'm joking. I'm not.


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Apollo Gee

Sorry.

Again.

It just seems to be working for me. I would expect the number of readers to dwindle the more graphic I get, but human nature ain't like that. You'll be intrigued, horrified, empathetic, drawn back for more. But you won't be enjoying it.

Not that I'm trying to entertain you. It's just that...

Oh God, even though I've always had that drive to fit in, to act how I'm supposed to, to not make a fuss, to not upset anyone... there's also this other me, frustrated by the British lack of honesty. And I know that keeping things private isn't the same as lying, but come on. It causes damage.

It hurts people when teenagers know fuck all about reproduction or love or tenderness or understanding, when they launch themselves at each other without the faintest clue about half of human life because nobody's ever bothered to tell them.

When pain and anger are either buried and glossed over or exaggerated and scandalised, and there's something vulgar about presenting in detail your bodily habits, your innermost feelings, your sexual desires or the ways that you hurt, it's just wrong.

I've never been any good at covering things up. I'm always blurting things out, saying things I shouldn't, sharing things you wouldn't, and getting myself into trouble.

And I'm a novelist. We look for the drama in things. We want to write everything down. We want to observe, make notes, save up our experiences to use them a later date. We want to move people; make them cry.

Clearly I've been told off for this behaviour enough times that I'm reticent, hesitant; my honesty is accompanied by self doubt.

But that's rubbish. And you never know, this might not just be therapy, or ego food, or Tourette's. Maybe it'll actually be useful.

Maybe it won't.

But maybe it will.


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Don't Make a Fuss

I took Felix to the cinema recently, and he dropped his popcorn all over the floor.

“Never mind,” he said instantly. “It doesn’t matter.”

He gets that from me. Don’t make a fuss. Don’t worry. Don’t sweat the petty stuff.

Before we went into hospital on Thursday morning, I went to the toilet again. I hoped there'd be something to see, because otherwise I'd have been making a fuss about nothing.

When the nurse asked questions about the blood, about the pain, I found myself wanting to exaggerate. Because what I had to report was so small, so vague. I didn’t want to waste her time.

After we’d found out the fuss we were making was about something and not nothing, we went home. That night, we got pissed. We got pissed and stoned and we made jokes to each other.

I was worried that one of the literary agents might read the announcement on my blog; might delay getting in touch out of respect. I wanted to go back and edit: “P.S. If you’re a literary agent, don’t let the fact that I’ve just lost a baby put you off. Call me!”

We both thought it would be funny. But people wouldn’t get the joke. They’d be appalled.

When bad things happen to people, everyone tiptoes around them. Don’t mention death, or babies, or blood. Don’t make jokes.

That’s fair enough: it’s hard to know what’s right. It’s your job though, not ours. Why should we be pussyfooting around our own selves? But we are. There’s a strong sense that we should behave in a certain way. We’re not allowed to get over it and move on, not allowed to make jokes, not allowed to be drunk and silly, not allowed to be ourselves. We have to mourn.

And of course we do, we are, we will. But...

We ended up posting this on the Big Chill forum, and it made us feel a bit better.

Still, I feel bad about this which was posted last night, drunk and stoned and depressed. It seems wrong, somehow. But why?

This morning I found my other post wasn’t shortlisted for Post of the Week, and it hurt. I was glad when it was nominated. Why? I’m not sure. There’s the ego thing, of course. But it’s not just that. And I’m not making any claims for the quality of the writing, really I’m not. I can’t begin to be objective about that: When I read it, all I see is the content - and even that through a salty mist. But I can’t help wondering... was it decorum that saw it excluded from the shortlist? Did the POTW editorial team think it wasn’t appropriate? Did they feel the need to protect me? Or their readers? Or maybe it was just a rubbish post.

We watched the pilot episode of Six Feet Under last night, which we have on DVD. There was a lot of death, mourning, blood, funerals. Nate and David, fellow sons of a funeral director, had a fight about propriety around a grave. What kind of grief is acceptable, appropriate?

And can you call it grief when the dead body is so tiny, so unreal? Was never actually a person?

And it wasn’t. I seem to have a deep-rooted instinct for self preservation on that score. I could never believe in Felix as a living human being until I held him in my arms - and even then it took a while. My mind bounced off all thoughts of babies, and I didn’t want to look at baby clothes or, in this case, use the name Felix gave it.

It’s the promise that’s lost. Not a human being, but the potential for one.

My mum said that when it happened to her, she thought about writing an article for the Guardian. She still remembers what she was going to say: that it wasn’t the loss of a person, so much as the loss of a way of life. She was in the middle of something, and then suddenly she wasn’t. And all those plans dissolved.

I have similar plans, maps and calendars in my head. All gone.

But I don’t want to make a fuss. Don’t want to be a nuisance. Don’t want to upset anyone, or do the wrong thing.

And right now, I think people might be annoyed with me. Because I told the whole world, before I reached twelve weeks. And it wasn’t ignorance - I know full well that a high proportion of pregnancies don’t make it past the first trimester. I reasoned that if anything went wrong, I’d rather people knew - and that way I’d be more likely to get sympathy and support. I’d heard that people regret having told nobody, because it means there is noone to understand.

And I have, I've had an astonishing amount of support. Emails, texts, comments, phone calls. You're all lovely. Please don't think I'm not grateful.

But perhaps some of you are thinking, “What did she have to go and tell us for? We could have been spared all this.”

And here I am, making a fuss.

But don’t worry, it’s only popcorn. It doesn’t really matter.


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Haha, brilliant

A friend of mine has become so incensed by the Observer Woman's Magazine each month that she's started a blog with the sole purpose of slagging it off.

And very funny it is too.


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Sunday Wondering

Every now and then I persuade My Loved Ones to fuck off and leave me with the house to myself for a few hours, and now that I'm pregnant I have the perfect excuse.

So here I am. Alone on a Sunday morning. Still in my dressing gown. Luxury.

I could drink tea and eat cake.

I could watch telly.

I could read a book.

I could listen to music.

I could eat chocolate.

I could surf the internet.

I could do some yoga.

I could eat biscuits.

I could do some relaxation exercises.

Or I could do all the jobs that need doing that I was planning to do as soon as I got a moment to myself.

And as I sit here pondering all the possibilities, a familiar kind of panic sets in. Oh no! I can't decide! There are too many options! And all the time I sit here trying to decide what to do, the time is dripping away and I know what'll happen cos it always happens, and I won't manage to settle down to do anything productive OR anything enjoyable, and just at the point when I'm finally relaxing and feeling like I'm getting something out of this delicious spare time, the front door will go and Felix will be tickling me again, and...

Felix is getting really into tickles again. This is great, when I get to do the tickling. The kind of belly-chuckle you can get out of a 4-yr-old if you tickle his armpits is the best sound in the world. And the fact that you can extract it so easily - like pressing a button - is immensely satisfying.

But he's not as good at tickles as I am. He just sort of wiggles his fingers in my general direction, and I pretend to laugh. And it stops being cute after the first couple of times, and is just slightly annoying. And I wonder whether I should help him learn how to really tickle someone, by only laughing if I am genuinely tickled. Except then he'd learn how to actually tickle me, and that would be even more annoying.

My mum looks on in horror when we play these tickling games. She has vivid memories - and so do I - of being a child and laughing that helpless being-tickled laugh while simultaneously thinking "oh please stop, this is horrible. I know I'm laughing, but that's just some kind of weird instinct. I'm not enjoying myself. Stop it!"

I have a theory that it's an uncle thing. I had many uncles when I was a child, and they were all boisterous and rambunctious and rough-and-tumble and lots of fun, but they sometimes went TOO FAR, and tickling was one example. They didn't notice when the laughing became slightly desperate and the ticklee really had HAD ENOUGH. They also tended to break things, when they got drunk and larked about a little too enthusiastically and started chasing each other around people's gardens and breaking people's ponds and stuff. Racketing, my grandma used to call it. "Boys!" she would shout. "Stop racketing!"

My uncles were great. I loved my uncles. Until they had children of their own. One by one, they became dads, and the same thing happened to every single one of them. They stopped being boisterous and started being Sensible. They suddenly decided that children are Fragile and they started pussy-footing around and being a lot less fun. Pah.

I still love 'em though. [waves at blog-reading uncles]

So maybe it's because I'm not an uncle that I can time it just right. My tickles come in very short bursts. A couple of seconds, just enough to have the child screaming with glee, but stopping short of the point where they start to feel helpless and trapped by involuntary laughter.

Anyway, what was I talking about? Oh yes. Sunday. Argh! See how much time I just wasted writing this post? Must eat chocolate! No, watch telly! No, read a book! No, sort iPod out! Argh!

The Youth of Today

I could write about how despairing and angry I feel at the continued and relentless demonisation of modern youth.

I could tell you how my eyes were opened when a friend who works in juvenile justice pointed out to me that those scary-looking hooded youths on our local street corner don't even notice me, and are far too interested in checking out their fellow youths and being bored to constitute any real threat.

I could tell you how sad it makes me when I see people look at each other with fear, then react to each other with aggression, purely because of insidious, all-pervasive wrong stereotyping...

Or I could just direct you to the words of this man here, who says everything I want to and more.


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Anticipation

Incidentally, I know I keep going on about it, but this whole Living In The Moment thing...

I like anticipation. I'm capable of getting Very Very Excited about things which haven't happened yet. Sometimes I can sustain this state for months in advance.

And OK, yes, sometimes I even manage to enjoy things while they're actually going on, but it doesn't last long cos before you know it they're over. And, well... don't you get better value if you enjoy things before they happen? I mean, in some ways, aren't we planners better off than you annoying living-in-the-moment chappies?

I remember being about twelve years old and on my way, yet again, to the corner shop to buy Dolly Mixture. I had a bit of an addiction to Dolly Mixture in my youth. I ate it so much it made my burps eggy. But what I used to think to myself, as I cycled yet again to the corner shop, was... I'll buy them, I'll eat them, they'll be yummy, and then it'll be all over. Gone. And I'll have to wait 'til the next time.

But really, the best bit... well, it was the sitting around thinking, "Mmmm, Dolly Mixture." And the ride to the shops. And the watching, while they weighed them out ("a quarter of Dolly Mixture please").

Anticipation. It's under-rated.


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