I appear to have lost my voice here a wee bit. Usual reasons, really. Time. Tiredness. Trepidation over what sentence might just bite me on the arse at a later date. I think about lots of posts; every day, in fact, so I am going to have a try at blogging every day this month week, and, umm… see what happens.

Of course, I’m currently parked a little on the outside of self as I’ve been swallowing opioids like sweeties, so I hope I actually remember I’ve said that by tomorrow. Following an ibuprofen stock control blip, I was left with codeine as the only pharmacological line of defence between me and and savage internecine uterine war last night. I ingested sufficient quantities to put me into a most peculiar half-doze, thoroughly discombobulated and bewildered, and yet I remained in uterine anguish, which seems quite unfair.

Harry sat up to guzzle his usual half-pint at 2am and found he had mislaid his water bottle among the burgeoning soft-toy demographic of his bed. This generated prolonged yells of protest, and an eventual room upgrade, whereupon he promptly emptied half the bottle into our bed. I was dopey, but not that dopey. Cue immediate downgrade, and more protests.

Not a bad sleeper these days, Harry does go through the odd spate of poor nights. The night before last, he turned up at the side of our bed at 4am – having become disillusioned with either the temperature, the entertainment or the view in his own room – evidently aware that it was still very much sleepy-time, as he was cuddling his bedtime co-pilot, Gromit, firmly under one arm. Which would have been monstrous cute, had it not been, you know, 4am.

He seems to have had a narrow miss with Chicken Pox – we don’t vaccinate in the UK, we suffer in Spartan spots instead – which is flourishing unhealthily in children all around us, but which I think has now passed him by. I have been wielding the torch suspiciously over his face and chest when I go to bed, and my dreams have been populated by a strange hybrid of Harry and some chap out of Star Trek that I dimly remember as being a set of ambulatory red spots. Not a good look on him.

And I’m off to bed. I have an appointment with an anaesthetist tomorrow afternoon, whom I have to convince I am thin enough to safely knock out. Consultant told me I should shrink to at least 88kg before surgery- which I have, provided I am allowed to strip entirely naked on a kind set of scales – but she has also told my GP in a (lovely) letter that I am supposed to be getting down to a BMI of 29 before she operates. I will need to remove my clothes AND cut off all my hair AND thoroughly empty my bladder PLUS lose another 12lbs of excess baggage from somewhere about my person before I can tick that particular box. There is nearly two stone less of me than there was in early spring, but there is technically still much too much of me for a 6th September surgery date. I wonder if a corset will assist my camoflage?



As usual, I keep mentally drafting a dozen blog posts that never make it anywhere near here, usually because I think of them while I’m driving. Then evening rolls round and by the time I’ve galloped through my blog feeds and mentally bookmarked dozens of sites I want to look at again/in more depth/actually bloody comment on this time – it’s 10pm and it’s too late for me to start writing. I must be the slowest blogger in Christendom: I never seem to get the hang of dashing a quick one off the wrist –  ahem! – every day or so; instead I save it up for you in great indigestible chunks that take me hours to write. I must achieve brevity, for your sanity and mine.

So. Lemme see. What’s happened?

I had cause to remember my red onion allergy at the weekend. I hadn’t actually forgotten that the smell of the things makes me ill, it’s rather that I’ve been avoiding them for several years on precisely that basis, without actually being able to recall quite what they do to me. They’re colourful and attractive and I thought, really, I must surely have imagined something so damn silly as an onion-smell allergy, so I bought 3 to put in with my supper-party roast veg on Saturday night. Caution intervened and I only prepared one; I left it in quarters, mid-afternoon, in a large dish of peeled and chopped root veg that I kept meaning to cover over and never did, as I was pathetically behind culinary schedule as usual. I began to feel fairly headache-y after a hour or so, and thought ‘I really MUST cover that bloody onion up’ – and got distracted by something else, and didn’t.

I was concentrating so hard on cooking that it wasn’t until guests turned up at 7.30 that I realised I was verging on a migraine and my sinuses felt as if they had been injected with liquid lead. My tinnitus (a permanent legacy of Castle Donnington 1991 Monsters of Rock festival! Yo! Duuuuuuuudes!) was roaring and I could still hear my pulse pounding in my ears over the top of that. I struggled through the whole evening and went to bed feeling exceptionally shitty. I could see purple auras around objects in the half-light, my neck glands were swollen and my entire nervous system felt dysfunctional and overwrought. Harry yelled for an hour or so, which helped not one jot. It took me more than 24 hours to recover. Judicious googling has revealed that I am not actually quite alone in my freakish allergy, and, like me, other sufferers can encounter white onions and garlic without disturbance; only red onions are the naughty ones. Do bear this in mind when you invite me to lunch!

So. That was boring. What else?

Harry’s physio discharge letter came, and said what we expected it to say: they can see no physical reason for his falls. He ‘certainly appears to have a degree of hyper-flexibility’ and ‘does tend to fall frequently, particularly from furniture, steps, etc’.

Uh-huh. Bouncing horses, too.

crayola shiner

‘He appears to have a high activity level, but does not always appear to be aware of the risk of falling.’ 

You can say that again, lady. Oh… you do!

‘He needed constant attention to avoid injury’.

Sigh. We’re taking Harry – and his shiner (which the photos aren’t doing full justice to; I’ve been looked at like a true pariah by every mother I’ve seen this week) – to see his Paed tomorrow – except it isn’t actually his Paed, because they’ve shifted all the clinics about, so it’s ‘one of the paediatric team’; at least we have the benefit of a second opinion, I suppose.

Harry had a rotten cold the last half of last week, John has lurched from sore throat to sore throat, and I’ve been bunged up with unspeakable and unshiftable mucus for a fortnight or more. Harry was so sad and sorry for himself last Thursday that he ended up sleeping with me for a couple of nights, barking with a hoarse little squeak and smearing me liberally in the night with his mucus-laden features when he came for kisses and cuddly reassurance.

Of course, largely recovered, he is now waking up at midnight and demanding stridently to be brought into bed with us. If he is given-in to, he lies quietly between us in the dark for a few minutes before becoming utterly bored and deciding to par-tay; this takes the form of him launching headbutts randomly into the dark and giggling. I have a sore nose – again – and John suffered a spectacularly fat lip. When Harry is inevitably carted back to his room by a furious and smarting parent, he proceeds to melt down in heartbreaking fashion, pulling every known trick in the tantrum book. He throws himself about the cot so enthusiastically that his sleeping bag poppers and zips generally give up the ghost, freeing his legs for a launch attempt over the recently-heightened fence of his cot bars towards Planet Parent.

I completely comprehend Harry’s frustration and confusion. In cot! Wah! Escape from cot facilitated! Weee! In cot again! Wah! John is annoyed because I had him in bed with me to begin with and started the Cot Protest rot again, but it’s just not in me to leave a miserable, toastie-hot, achey, sneezing, coughing little boy sat mournfully behind his cot bars, clutching his water bottle like it’s his best friend, and wailing sadly. He’s a tough little shoot, but I can see when he’s feeling absolutely rotten and he ends up sleeping with me every time he’s poorly… and every time we have to go through a week’s worth of weaning him back into his own room afterwards, usually just in time for the next virus.

I accept it’s a problem. Hubby also needs to accept that if he starts one more sentence with ‘If you hadn’t…’ at 4am in the morning, when we’ve both been trampled to a bloody pulp by our son’s bony hooves and neither of us have had a wink of sleep yet, his breeding days are o.v.e.r.

By virtue of Harry’s viral woe, I managed to entirely miss the much-hyped BBC Question Time featuring the BNP MEP Nick Griffin. Some of you may not be aware of the British National Party: they are the UK’s far-right political abhorrence and gained 2 European – not British – parliamentary seats in the last election. As elected politicians, I regretfully concede that the BBC does indeed have a moral obligation to occasionally bung them on TV, but… well. I had vaguely planned a bit of a long rant about it here, but I now find I simply can’t be bothered to download it and watch it: apparently he came off badly, which was no surprise.

I have much I could say, but will confine myself to the bald statement that Harry’s life was saved by 3 doctors: all of them coloured, all of them accented, all of them immigrants. I bless them frequently. The BNP delivered a leaflet through our door earlier in the year, and the only reason I didn’t wipe my bottom with it is that I have more respect for my own arse than that.

Harry’s life needing to be saved at all was brought back to me in disturbing detail last week: my long-awaited pregnancy and medical notes arrived. That’s a whole other post – likely an excruciatingly boring one, too (WordPress have just introduced a new, bright-red ‘Move to Trash’ button, and it appears to be affecting my confidence!), but I always think that and mysteriously you keep coming back – so I will try my hardest to write it tomorrow night. 

And… it seems that my blogroll is being shat on, particularly and horribly hard lately.

Pru is down, Womb is down, L’eggs is down, Twangy is down, Thalia is down, Belgian Waffle is down.

Everyday Stranger is having a dreadfully hard bloody time.

May is spending tonight in hospital with a suspected ectopic pregnancy. In her single remaining ovary + tube.  is miscarrying, and having a shockingly shitty reproductive nightmare.

These ladies need bloggy love, even if it’s the silent in-your-head sort.

Harry’s Birthday

I never did get around to posting about Harry’s birthday.

 We were gathered in the hallway about to leave for his party, when Harry, in one of the accidents he so often suffers, overbalanced on the stairs in front of us all and smashed his eye socket hard into the wooden stair rails. I could tell by the thump it was a bad one, although John, also in a tense mood, saw fit to instantly berate me for over-reacting, before he had even inspected Harry’s damage.

So now: Harry has a cut, swollen eye, and is roaring like he is being murdered. I have, strangely, suddenly decided that occupying the same planet as my dear husband is vastly over-rated. I am sat in the living room cradling my shrieking child, tears running silently down my stressed face, as the clock ticks rapidly towards – and beyond – Party Time! Yay! Well, we were late. Half the guests were waiting outside the hall. I turned up at Harry’s 2nd birthday party bootfaced, tear-stained and miserable.

I wanted to grab Harry, flee far, far away to somewhere I could cuddle him in perfect peace, and cry a quiet river into his hair when I got there. The UK ‘BBQ summer’ had rendered the north-facing village hall so cold that we had to make pots of tea simply to warm people up. I suppose I was doing a bad job of trying to adjust my features upwards, because everyone kept asking what the matter was, and then Harry collided with something else which made him cry again, and I had to retreat to the kitchen to do some seriously shaky deep breathing at that point.

I eventually managed to get a grip on some stiff upper lip, and laid the food out. I calmed down a fair bit when I’d got them all sat down and eating, and I began to feel a little less like a trapped animal. Then I cheered up substantially, as someone I knew walked in, who was unequivocally coming to stand shoulder to shoulder with me in my emotionally torrid little corner – bringing two extremely special and immaculately tricked-out little guests:

Nick & Nora

and I’ve begged all these photos from Shannon, as to my annoyance I took virtually none.

We sang Happy Birthday to my handsome little man.

Harry happy birthday

I helped Harry blow out his candle I blew out Harry’s candle

Harry candling blowing

and we cut his cake.

Veg patch

naughty pig


We had practised blowing (oo-er) but all Harry can manage yet are comical piggy-snorts.

After the party we headed home, and Shannon, poor girl, must have been sadly conscious of the contrast between her and Alistair’s welcome of me to their beautiful home… and… ours. She’d just had a really long drive, during which Nora gave her heart failure at 70mph by discovering how to work the door release catch – and arrived to chaos. John and I had completely forgotten to screw the rail for the roman blind up that morning in the second guest room, obliging me to precariously perch a large art print over part of the window to darken the room for Nick & Nora instead. I also noticed that John, despite having had strict instructions to clean the guest bathroom (he claims I must have dreamed telling him this), seemed to have entirely omitted to clean the tidemark of Harry’s perpetual grubbiness from the actual bath. Sigh. We’re just not good at this at all. Shannon’s pair of utterly delightful babies (Yes, babies! Babies! They are ALL STILL BABIES! I will have no truck with this ageing toddler thing!) occupied me beautifully until it was time to heave-to once more, as we were having a BBQ for some assorted farming friends that evening.

I enjoyed the evening party enormously. I suspect my dear old father, incidentally, much as he loves me, wants to swop me for Shannon. He has THAT MUCH of a paternalistic crush on her. He has told me no less than 3 times how delightful she was, and has enthusiastically quizzed me – uncomfortably closely, in the secret COUblogGH!/deliberately-left-murky circumstances – on quite how we met. Sadly for him, Shannon’s Dad is highly unlikely to accept a late-life adoption of all of my 14 stones quietly, so I think it’s a no-deal situation.

The weather had failed to live up to its threats and had turned out beautifully. John duly carbonised some genuine pig product on the BBQ, and we settled down in traditional British fashion to crunch away at the burnt bits. I had forgotton that Shannon was vegetarian, because I am a bit fucking useless, so she was obliged to subsist on salad (which she had earlier set-to and chopped herself, because she’s lovely like that), baked potato skins and the chocolate fountain. I’m positive she needed the sustenance, because effortlessly memorising names, faces, occupations and personalities for every guest she charmed must surely require fuel. It’s one hell of a social accomplishment: I generally find that memorising the surname pushes the first name out of my head, and five minutes later I’m utterly clueless.

John, a seasoned drinker as a Young Farmer, now only goes out every month or so, and has gently morphed into a 5-pint-limit susceptible Old Git. He gently folded himself into an armchair and began to snore. I would probably have left him there but Shannon is made of altogether kinder stuff and took pity on the pain his crunched-up form would suffer; we heaved him, leg and an arm apiece, onto the neighbouring couch. I predicted that he would, around 5am, awake and crawl shiveringly into bed. As indeed he did.

 The next morning hurt my head a little, but not nearly so much as John’s.

Do you remember I told you I had sent a birthday card for Harry to CBeebies – the national UK children’s channel?


Well, they showed it… probably out of sheer GUILT at having RIPPED THE DRAWING OFF TIMMY’S EASEL! You can see the ripped ends and everything! I spent ages on that bloody rainbow! Harry’s is the last few seconds.

Shannon and Alistair between them most kindly ensured that this recording was immortalised for me, as I was stuck in an appalling Bank Holiday queue in the West Midlands Safari Park at the time, being eyed up speculatively by a tiger.

I Wrote To The Zoo

I am taking a brief break from my hard-core cleaning marathon. I never knew there were so many spiders in the world, let alone that they had been so unremittingly spinny in my house.

Tuesday sucked, as few other days have sucked. John is of the opinion that being formally diagnosed with a painful condition has psychosomatically affected me – which may or may not be true, but I’ve never been obliged to put myself on the cusp of painkiller not-quite-overdose-but-lots-too-many-nevertheless before. My uteri honestly felt like they were on fire; I kept having to crouch on the floor and groan, which I haven’t had to do since Harry made an appearance from one of them. I must see about getting some industrial-strength painkillers for next time, because Tuesday Was Not Fun.

I have been working like a navvy all week. We live in a large house, and we are both housework-averse, consequently the piles of crap have grown impressively high; you could write a reasonably long letter in the dust in any room of your choosing. John was keen to bulldozer it all into a Grandaddy heap in one room, which I vetoed on the grounds of A) public safety, B) it would depress me and C) we haven’t an unused room to actually hide it in.

I have had an agitated week regarding Harry’s birthday present. This

bouncing pony

turned up from Amazon looking vaguely like Chucky, with a grand total of 3 legs.

He was too scary. So I sent him back.

I then spent a fevered 3 hours DOUBLE-CHECKING the internet on the faint, remote off-chance that SOMEONE, SOMEWHERE in the UK might stock a proper bouncing pony. Eventually, by the unorthodox and genius approach of actually Googling the bloody name of it… Glory Be! I found a SINGLE SOLITARY UK stockist. 

radio flyer springing horse

I sprained my wrist with my snake-like speed, reaching for my Visa card. It cost so much that I have been obliged to forgo A) the party helium balloons (my infertile baby-dreams of birthday parties always had lots of helium balloons in. Couldn’t afford a cylinder last year either. Sigh.) and B) replacing the coat that I left at the Royal Show. Yep, last year my handbag, this year my (only summer-weight one I own) coat.

I was nervous as hell that the website was wrong, that the horse was a mere electronic chimera. I watched my inbox like a particularly vigilant and conscientious hawk, emitting a tiny cheer when an order confirmation popped confidently up. I couldn’t contain my uneasiness, though, and rang the stockist to double check – he told me it would be with me tomorrow. And I still had a bad feeling about it all. 

Parcelforce – my much-feared weak link – appeared this morning, on cue. Another small cheer escaped me when I saw the picture on the box – it was the right one! I examined it anxiously for signs of previous opening, and drew a cautious breath of relief.  Harry, naturally, refused to nap until after lunch, when I fell upon the container eagerly.

I opened it up and pulled out the body section, chuckling in satisfaction at the padded saddle and the chirpy painted harness. I pulled out one…two… three… FOUR legs! We have a full complement of legs! Hurrah! I dived back in and pulled out more bits and bobs, and began to rummage around in the bottom. I did a double-take. I checked again. I recoiled in horror.

I thundered down the corridor into the kitchen like a bull elephant, trumpeting my rage in a not-The-Godfather type-way: ‘There’s no head! There’s NO FUCKING HEAD! THEY’VE SENT ME A HORSE WITH NO MOTHERFUCKING HEAD!’

I stood there, chest heaving, head spinning, gasping wild imprecations interspersed with frantic yammmerings about how this was probably THE ONLY ONE IN ENGLAND and WHAT THE FUCK DO WE DO whilst Hubby had a rummage around the contents. He picked up the main body of the horse. And, like a conjuror producing a size 10 rabbit from a size 2 hat, produced the head from where it had been inserted, head-first, into the animal’s own body.

I subsided into a shaking heap on the floor. I can’t hack this pony-purchasing business at all.

We proceeded to spend 30 busy minutes building Dobbin, as my obsession over missing parts would brook no delay, before he cantered backwards – a neat trick – up the hill to the Delightful Doctors


to live hidden from small eyes until Saturday week, when 23 children, give or take, ranging from 4 weeks to nearly 7 years, will be descending on our local village hall. I am, believe it or not, really, really looking forward to it. 

There will be Dobbin – an early present for Harry, who does not turn 2 until 2 days afterwards – a small ball-pool, a little bouncy-castle, lots of straw bales, a play-house, all Harry’s ride-on cars and tractors, pass-the-parcel, a bran wheat tub with lots of chocolate yummies for little hands to find, a bubble machine, lots of balloons (the non-floaty type, dammit) a huge birthday cake which I have been plotting and fretting over (in a good way) for months, and a slap-up party tea so chock-full of sugar that every single child will go home wired to the max. Heh.

And with any sort of luck, all this toddler-festival will go some way towards convincing me that our wonderful, beautiful, heart-stoppingly precious little boy really does exist, really does give me those cuddles and kisses that wring my heart with love, really does make us laugh until it hurts with his blatant mischievousness, and really does make us nearly burst with pride at his cleverness.

Because I’m still, still, shaking my head in disbelief that, in spite of everything, he’s here. He’s healthy, he’s mine, he’s ours, he’s entirely himself alone, and he’s here.

I find this awesome.


  • That sound you hear? Me touching lots and lots and lots of wood. Do not giggle.
  • Yesterday, I saw my counsellor. We discussed Harry, Harry, Harry, Harry and the Very Bad and Worrisome whole Wanting To Hurt My Own Preshus Self thing. Felt, as always, calmed and soothed afterwards. I am going back a little sooner than usual to explore ways of mentally embarking upon a journey towards a second (actually fifth, but you get my drift) pregnancy that does not leave me feeling guilt-racked – before we’ve even got going – about sentencing a fetus to an worryingly indeterminate stay inside my now proven Not-Exactly-Grade-A uteri.
  • Ethics of deliberately creating a life when you know very well that your faulty internal housing might choke it half to death and expel it early. Like, umm, last time. Dodging of bullets, etc. Discuss!
  • It came as a slight shock when she began to talk about which obstetrician I might usefully be referred to this time around, and mentioned that the Professor of Obstetrics at my regional hospital is a Riskiest-of-High-Risk-Pregnancies specialist. I am so used to being the only specialist on my idiosyncratic anatomy that I tend to think that I’m on my own with it. Which in many ways, I am, but I can’t deny that the prospect of buttonholing an eminent chap (I’ve googled the shit out of him already) who might manage me a little more aggressively this time around was… pleasant. If there is a next time, of course.
  • In related news, my period started Tuesday, exactly 2 hours after I wasted a pregnancy stick. This did not surprise me; not only did I have an unco-operative internal pH thing going on during my LH surge, we also missed the boat on the whole introduce-sperm-to-egg process. On the crucial evening John visited the pub with a mate and although he returned, as ever, keen as mustard to perform, this did not actually prevent him from rapidly falling unconscious asleep without having given of his all, so to speak. Given that I am far too fat to be even half-way comfortably pregnant currently, this was not a disappointment to me, but Hubby seemed displeased about it. I am currently having crampybastardshittyfuckcramps; they are obviously fighting for money in there again.
  • Hubby had, incidentally, got tipsy at the pub with an-embarking-on-divorce-proceedings pal, who is now sporting a brand new pierced ear, his first tattoo and a chunky studded belt. He has also just bought a motorbike, and is stoicly propping up the local pub bars chatting up the beer flossies. Bless the man.
  • I went to bed earlyish last night, exhausted and with racking period pain. I woke up at 2am having bled all over the sheet. Nice.
  • Apropos of the too-fat-for-pregnancy thing, I got on the scales last night, got into bed and promptly burst into tears. I have lost exactly nothing after more than a month of conscientious 3-times-a-week gym attendance. I am, admittedly, aware that I have not been eating at all healthily – a long succession of cakes and sinfully buttery-creamy meals I have cooked for friends – and that my thrice-weekly torture has actually prevented me from gaining the stone+ that I thoroughly deserved to, but still… depressing. I am eating up assisting John with the the last of his birthday cake


and then The Diet begins. I am only 4lbs off my heaviest-ever-including-pregnancy weight.  This is dreadful.

  • Harry’s Speech and Language Therapist came on Tuesday, had some useful suggestions for us, and seemed pleased that Harry has acquired – intermittently – a second word last week: ‘Out!’ He uses it to demand release from his highchair, although often also reverts simply to his generic ‘Iss! Dis!’ while struggling frantically with the straps. (We are still getting plenty of excited ‘Gis!’ despite the fact that they totally made him cry when they honked and ran at him this week.) She is chasing the Integrated Disability Service – that’s how it looks in my head, by the way – again to come and assess him. 
  • I have a boil-type thing in my ear, and it’s making my life miserable, particularly when I’m trying to sleep on it. I can’t see what’s happening – although feeling plenty – so I asked John to take a peer inside, with a view to lancing anything that presented itself. He recoiled backwards, emitting loud ‘urrgggghs!’ Useless.
  • I have still not bought John the whisky he requested as a birthday present, because I can’t be bothered to drive, park, visit the big off-licence, and pay for it with his money whilst toting a grabby-mine-giveitme-wantit toddler. Bad Wifey.
  • Harry has had a waily evening so far, which is a good indicator that he is going to go on to have a disturbed and screamy night. I’m guessing he’s under the weather, possibly with a gripy belly. I am upset by the fact that he is statistically likely to be experiencing pain, nightmares or is scared of something and cannot communicate these things to us at all. It hurts to know he has a comfort need I can’t fill properly.
  • Why, why are there no hexagonal/octagonal used summer houses on Ebay, within 30 miles of here, that no-one apart from me is interested in bidding on? I want one NOW. TODAY. Kthx.
  • The tortoise desperately needs cleaning out; the chicks are also getting off-puttingly smelly and need shifting into bigger quarters in the garage. These are tomorrow’s tasks. I will also have the insanely-heavy-periods-sufferer perk of putting Harry into the creche at the gym for an hour in the morning as usual – and sitting downstairs with coffee and a book.
  • Small Yay! for menorrhagia.

Wringing of Hands


Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.
I want to fill it with color and ducks,
The zoo of the new

Whose names you meditate –
April snowdrop, Indian pipe,

Stalk without wrinkle,
Pool in which images
Should be grand and classical

Not this troublous
Wringing of hands, this dark
Ceiling without a star.

Sylvia Plath

This post was supposed to be about me climbing sheepishly down off my horse named Melodrama, and telling you that, really, peeps, I’m fine; I just go a little peculiar in the head when I see blood pouring out of my baby.

Of course, that was before he ran across the drive after his Grandad this evening, and fell chin-first onto the tarmac. I’m beginning to feel a bit uncomfortable – and weary – of taking photos of a bloody child with an injured mouth, so I took a couple of myself instead. Harry mainly wanted his Daddy’s shoulder – black-clad this time – to cry/bleed it all out on today, but he stuck with me long enough to make his point.


Ann 2

I’m not an avid photographer-of-self. 15 stone will, you know, occasionally do that to a girl. But these… appeal to me. I have never yet (except poooooossibly the In-Laws-With-Bride group shot at our wedding, by which stage I was getting cold & mizzled on) seen my expression tell a glummer story.

Immediately prior to taking these woeful photos, I endured a 3-hour dinner with my parents. Normally a complete joy to entertain, they omitted to inform me, when I issued the invitation yesterday, that they were not, in fact, speaking to one another. I have a policy of non-socialisation when this occurs, as it upsets me. Today, even John – not the most sensitive human example of emotional litmus – managed to pick up the frosty undertone and the pot-shots. I was just beginning to cheer up as they opened the front door to go, when I saw Harry take his tumble.

An inevitable combination of the 4 deadly Ss – Speed, unSteadiness, Sandals and the Slope sent him smack onto his chin. For some absurd reason, I was supremely confident for a second or two that he couldn’t possibly have bust his lip again, as no-one can possibly sink their top teeth nearly right through their bottom lip 3 times in 5 days. Surely not! The fates are not that unkind to already-mangled and swollen flesh.

They fucking are, you know.

Wax Doll

Because life isn’t fucking fair, sweetheart. Because just when the lip that you smashed up Wednesday morning starts to go down a tiny little bit, you get knocked over by the spaniel and fall mouth-first into the chair.



If you’re wondering why his top is relatively free of blood, it’s because it mostly landed on mine. Harry did hold out his arms to John for a cuddle, but John didn’t want to get his white t-shirt stained and held him facing the other way around instead. Father of the Year.

Self-harm has never been my particular vice. But when I saw the blood pouring out of Harry’s mouth again, and heard his howls of pain, and saw his poor eyes full of incomprehension and distress… I felt so unbearably full of rage and frustration that all I wanted to do was hurt myself. My mouth was crooning cheery little soothing noises, my arms were holding his sobbing little form tightly, and my mind was roaring from a pain that had no-where to go except inwards. My son suffered pain right from the hour he was born, and there was nothing I could do to help him then, either.

Within half an hour he was toddling about again, and he’s now gone to bed, quietly enough considering he has the fattest lip I’ve ever seen, post-12-round-fight heavyweights included. I should be cooking dinner for friends. They’ll be here soon. Instead I’m sat crying.

If I feel such a savage and demented Mummy-Bear over a beaten-up lip, it’s not looking very promising for the first girl that dumps him.

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