So I may, possibly, have had to look up my blog password. There’s no shame in it. *ahem* Nor in the fact that people were thinking I may have fallen into a vat of port. (https://hairyfarmerfamily.co.uk/2012/07/12/hairy-gold-cup/#comments because WordPress is being a past-my-bedtime fuckwit and has acquired total and unceremonious vaginismus regarding insertion of links, videos and common sense since I was last here.) Chance’d be a mighty fine thing, I assure you.
Can I do bullet points?
- We are all alive. We are all even reasonably healthy, currently, although it does follow a gruelling Summer of Germs. John was Man Down for a Whole Week, so much so that he felt himself obliged to visit the doctor for the first time since 2004 – and that visit was for our honeymoon inoculations. I diagnosed a simple but nasty bout of man-flu before we went (I did, of course, insist on driving him; partly out of concern for his whey-faced malaise, but also to get my Told You So in at the earliest possible juncture) and the Dr… well, John says he didn’t actually deny that J had a galloping case of pleurisy with tubercular complications, but sadly for J’s self-esteem, wouldn’t confirm J’s diagnosis either. In fact, there was muttering about ‘didn’t even take my bloody temperature’. Our GPs are a hard-bitten collection of individuals, it has to be said, and the milk of human kindness (specifically as manifested by the common-or-garden British GP in the form of a pity-prescription for antibiotics that you almost certainly don’t need) can run a bit thin, but none of us have died on their watch yet. J lived through the week, to be sure.
- I think I have misunderstood the purpose and nature of bullet points. Brevity never my thing.
- Obesity is hopefully not my thing for much longer, either. I am clawing my way slowly out of the 30-something BMI range, and am 7lbs away from a BMI of 29.9, at which I will clinically merely register a paltry ‘overweight’. I am at my lightest in 6 years, having lost some 30-odd lbs since Christmas. The saddening part is that it has not been a spectacularly visible weight loss, having deflated from an over-filled balloon to… just a balloon. Losing another 30lbs would be significantly more image-enhancing. It is all exceedingly tedious going, though, and my cake-consumption has suffered terribly. I would sell your grandmother for a packet of plain chocolate Leibniz and a glass of milk.
- I went to London last week, and it was ace. I met up with May & H, whom I was massively overdue to hobnob with, and It Was Very Fine. (If you are ever lucky enough to persuade May to put her Blue Badge Guide hat on, you will have a most magnificent visit indeed.) I managed to get two museums, two meals (the V&A does a damn generous lunch. They gave me 10.5 potatoes. TEN AND A HALF POTATOES. It took all three of us to finish them) and a concert inserted into their schedule at late notice, and Was Smug about it. Days that good are to be treasured.
- The concert was my beloved Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain http://www.ukuleleorchestra.com/main/home.aspx; they are the future: you can’t fight it. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SX4pzqkBjBw The UOGB are permanently on tour, seemingly, and dutifully include the Midlands on their booking rosta. Unlike Pokey Lafarge & the South City Three, whom I also adore with a Frequent Play passion http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=USgGfOk6yQI, but who persist in edging around the coast of Britain like cautious crabs, and only venturing inland if they can be assured that their gig will not bring them within 100 miles of me.
- Speaking of coast: the Hairies are off to the seaside next month. Courtesy of my parents, who can spot a end-of-tethered and fiscally Mother-Hubbarded daughter with ease, we are off to Cyprus with them for some heat and pottering about. It will be Harry’s first time on a plane. John and my mother have each responded to the challenge of keeping him happy on board a 5-hour flight by dashing out and buying tablets. The electronic sort; I am planning to rely on some of the other variety, washed down with copious wine. I do not travel well. I abhor aeroplanes with a fervent ferocity that is eclipsed only by my feelings for boats, coaches, and cars that are not driven by me. God designed me to stay in one bloody place. (I was not always like this, btw. Planes, even tiny ones, were fine until That Time With The Crosswind And The Wingtip And The Hard Bounces Back Off The Runway And All The Screaming.) Consequently, they will have to pin Harry to his chair without looking to me for help: my fingers will doubtless be white and welded to my armrests.
- Harry is likely to need pinning to his chair. Harry and his possible labels are beyond the scope of even my bullet points, currently. He is well, adorable and gratifyingly popular (his SENCO, in preparation for some major meetings approaching, was drawing him out on a few topics and elicited that ‘I’m just like God, because I like everyone.’) but has not transitioned well from reception to year one. Given that he is currently retaining his dedicated pt-time TA, he has coped well enough in school – bar, and it’s a major bar, sinking his teeth into his friend last Friday – but his behaviour at home has been lamentable. Ground gained is often invisible until it’s lost, I tell myself, and This Too Shall Pass. But by the time he’d peed in the back footwell of my car (deliberately. To my bewildered delight, his daytime wetting has slowed over this summer to virtual non-occurrence, although I remain trepidatious. Remember, Britons, when the Gulf Stream shifted back north for 6 glorious days in the midst of the Summer of Murk? And we all had major trust issues with the sunshine? That.) on a hormonally poorly-chosen week for me, I was ready to break like a bloody twig – and ended up in floods of tears at the school gate when a kind soul who Gets It put an unwitting boot into my sangfroid by being awfully nice and sympathetic. So, that wasn’t the slightest bit shaming, then.
- I am the newly-elected, probably because I didn’t see the poisoned chalice approach in time, PTA chair. I can see it will be a drain on my time and energy, but it isn’t as if I have anything else to do, because I can’t get a blasted job.
- Or: I expect I could get a job stacking shelves easily enough (although after some inexplicable non-responses, I’ve taken to wondering even about that) but I value my continuing sanity. John is vaguely regretful about this, and occasionally asks me wistfully if I’m sure I wouldn’t like to work on a checkout? He is still doggedly paying my monthly credit card bill and still seems fond of me, but it does mean that items like holidays are out of our grasp. And although I manage to fill my day with all sorts of pleasant gubbinations, I really feel it’s time I contributed financially. Irritatingly, the re-training I dismissed as Too Difficult, Too Long and Too Risky years ago could have been over with by now.
- My ongoing guilt about money has paired with the ongoing weight-loss to lead me to push back my IVF start date all year; although upon learning last week that my infertility counsellor of many years standing is retiring in April, I am now feeling that planning a cycle immediately after Christmas might be the best plan. I will be 38 in February, and this is all starting to feel like a bit of a drag. I don’t want to be pregnant again. I don’t want not to be pregnant again. Wash, rinse and repeat.
- Another cycle, and its likely haemorrhagic ending, will be enormously more complicated in re: Harry, than the previous one. Injections could previously be passed off as ‘Mummy’s medicine’ and rapid transfers to hospital explained as being for Mummy’s ‘poorly tummy’. It all floated over him at some considerable height. Harry, despite marked immaturity in some respects, has grown any amount of neural networks since then. He would have to be told something, for sure, but I’m sincerely buggered if I know what.
- *casts about to improve the gloomy atmos* I have chicks! A bit gawky-teenage now, and being evicted into the main hen run tomorrow if it doesn’t bucket down, but I’ve had six small things to cluck over, which has been nice. My main hen contingent – currently a peevish mixed-bag of five + cockerel) were unimpressed with the new arrivals when I conducted a familiarisation visit. There was not-so-surreptitious pecking taking place – which I would view with a more benign eye if the chief peckers were not also the worst layers. All of life is in the hen run!
- Lastly, (because it is midnight on a school night and although I haven’t finished I will just post this anyway or the blog may lock me out forever) for some reason I can no longer remember, I uncharacteristically once responded to a thoughtful, well-spelled (I’ve had some corkers that weren’t. CORKERS.) marketing blogger-outreach. With the net result that the National Railway Museum in York http://www.nrm.org.uk/ occasionally send me nice little bijous – a source of guilt to me, given my reprehensible neglect of this place and my complete failure to mention them, ever. So: yesterday they sent me a delightful wee Paddington Bear in a briefcase tin and a leaflet about their half-term activities – which I genuinely do fancy, having train-keen males in the house and having been thoroughly in love with York for nearly 25 years (The history! The Shambles! The walls! The Jorvik! The Minster!). I am sans cash for a trip north, but if you have some, go. York is stunning. Yorkshire is beautiful, if you pick your place. Try to hit the Minster at organ practice time if possible.
- If you know where I live: I am free for coffee and gossip often enough, so drop in if you are nearby. I may inflict some dreadful Weightwatchers-recipe cake on you, which, trust me, is often worse than No Cake At All.