Rumbled

I knew I’d have my cover blown eventually.

It’s just… that I was so sure I’d be the drunken architect of my own undoing. I could picture the scene quite vividly: me, pub, injudicious quantities of wine, blurtyblurtystumbleblurty. Consequently, I’d imagined it would be my internet-savvy friends that found me, and I was … reasonably ok about that. Braced for the possibility. I had a vague notion of standing bravely by every gynaecological and paranoical quirk I’d pegged to the public bloggy washing line, despite feelg that there are some things, particularly of the intimate mucus variety, that really do not need to be burning into your family retinas.

But lately, I couldn’t quite rid myself of a naggy feeling that the Bliss Just Giving page might come back to bite me in the bum somehow. I had stupidly given my dear old Dad instructions to crank open his wallet via the site in order to let Bliss reclaim the tax – why I simply didn’t go and print out a bloody Gift Aid form for him, I really don’t know; I was tired, I expect. And sure enough, one or other of my lovely ancestors (Hi, folks!) has (with impressive internet detective skills that I freely admit I had thought rather beyond their technological reach) tracked me down – if the fact that I spotted this blog in Favourites on their laptop earlier this week is any kind of clue.

But hey, at least I’m in their Favourites! They like me! Me, their only child! Who knew!

And I still left the posts up, unpassworded, because there’s nothing here that they aren’t aware of in any case, bar the eye-watering gynae detail, albeit I’m too grumpy and busy sitting on my bum and eating their food to deliver information clearly or concisely half the time. 

You see where this is going, don’t you?

I dropped Harry off at the nursery I am now calling Abacus on Monday, and explained that I’d been unable to get through on the phone regarding the last two sessions, which we had missed. I had lost their original details under the compost of paper, lego and coffee cups that forms our filing system, and had been obliged to google their telephone number – an old one, as it turned out; they enquired where I’d seen it.

‘Oh, just Google it!’ I breezily advised.

So they very conscientiously did, today. And came straight here, because I’m now the 14th bloody search result for the place. Harry attended this nursery in the first place because it was a family friend who co-ran it. More specifically, a friend of John’s mother’s.

The three great communication mediums: telephone, television, and tell family.

Cue knee-jerk passwording. And… I don’t know what to do now. At all.

I can keep blogging, and password the stuff I’m reluctant to broadcast, but I’ve used a password for the odd post here and there already and it doesn’t feel like the right thing to do, personally, although it would tick a lot of the boxes. (Incidentally, on the subject of protected blogs, does anyone have Akeeyu’s email address? Typepad hates my guts and refuses to let me beg her password.) Or I could not talk about things pertaining to family, friends or the aberrant sack of lard I affectionately term my body – but you hear virtually bugger-all from me these days in any case; if I start editing out the subject matter: I got nowt.

I think I’ve either got to publicise the damn thing and square up to the fact that everyone knows what my morning pee-stick said or disappear somewhere under a flickrless, twitterless pseudonym and stamp hard on the virtual fingers of anyone who links to me.

Of course, there’s a billion infertile bloggers with two uteri and a back-to-front heart out there for me to just blend straight in with.

I’m sat here slugging away at the whisky – because WordPress has been a proper arse about all this – and telling myself that two of my favourite bloggers, Amy and Antonia, both of whom have children, seem to manage this identity-known-to-all business just fine, so why am I making difficulties and getting in my own narcissistic way and being interminably precious about it?

I’ll… figure it out. Somehow. I’m (doubtless, naively) hoping to have some quality laptop, tea-drinking and cogitation time over Christmas.

Speaking of which festivity: Harry has now encountered Santa twice. Predictably, he has twice taken immediate refuge either in my arms or the far side of the room – although once the penny dropped that the dude was actually handing out gifts, he let me edge him close enough to snatch Father Christmas’s offering with the speed of a striking cobra, before rapidly backing off again, clutching his present close to his chest. Bless the child.

The hubby’s abdomen-to-groin ripped muscle is finally starting to bruise, and it has sent virtually his entire… package… black. This has been the subject of much domestic hilarity, but as I’m feeling a bit draughty in the gaping open door of my blog just at present, I’ll spare you the details. Although, come to think of it, if I wanted to solve my current blog problems, perhaps… I should just… post a photo?

That’d stop ’em dead all right.

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