At this rate I’ll forget my WordPress password.
You last saw me standing on the ledge with my tattered anonymity clutched tight to my bosom, muttering hopefully about Having Time To Blog over Christmas.
I never learn.
To be scrupulously honest, I did have a reasonably unprecented amount of time to myself, but solely because I was obliged to spend it in a variety of assorted huddled heaps, swallowing as many opiates as I could lay my hands on. Cleverly, I had asked my GP for a course of progesterone to knock my interminably lengthy and tiresome on/off period on the head over Christmas; I took a grand total of two, completely forgot about the rest and voila! festive-red tsunami.
Judging by the fact that I was finally reduced to raiding the hoarded co-codamol and codeine prescribed after one or other of my miscarriages – the packets expired August 07 – I think this has been the worst pain that the deadly duo comprising my reproductive system have ever battered me with; apart from the times the pair of them have expelled, you know, actual human beings.
Christmas was… nice, in between the groaning. Harry has enjoyed the whole festive thing mightily, despite having had a hacking, vomit-inducing cough since November and looking like this
after one of his nursery Christmas parties. No matter how many times I pin people to the wall and minutely extole Harry’s spectacularly accident-prone propensities, everyone always looks surprised when they scrape him up pouring with blood. Harry wasn’t impressed with his visit to A & E; he resisted having his – deep – cut glued or stitched with admirable ferocity and had to make do with steri-strips doing a half-arsed job. Consequently, I think he’s now acquired his first life-long scar. Yippee.
What with that AND the latest lop-sided haircut I’ve given him in his sleep (scissors are hysterical item non-grata as far as he is concerned): Barnardos’d snatch him up for their next ad campaign like a shot.
Still, he had other Christmas parties to go to. I took him to one where he ran about so much and so happily that he inevitably began to cough – before vomiting copiously all over another child’s ride-on car. The shame was awful, despite the child’s poor mother heroically putting the revolting, dripping ride-on in the boot of her car and breezily assuring me that it’d hose off fine. I took him home in his vest and soaking trousers, lining the car seat – inadequately, as it turned out – with borrowed plastic bags. A quick sponge-bath for the pair of us, a change of clothes, and we were back at the village hall so that Harry could have the party tea he had been loudly mortified at leaving behind. He chewed everything, swallowed very little – and then promptly coughed again and deposited what he had eaten in the doorway.
At this point, he was down to his vest with vomit thickly populating his hair and we were running out of cleaning and swabbing materials to borrow, but he had just figured out how to use a tri-wheel scooter and was scooting delightedly around the village hall. Attempts to gently prise his vomity hands off this (yet another child’s) toy took a fair while and ended in tears.
The cough still wakes him up every morning and sometimes during the night – wretched fucking thing – but he hasn’t actually lost a meal since Sunday. Hooray.
I was vaguely planning to do the obligatory year’s review, but it’s five to midnight, so I think I’ve missed the boat a bit. I dislike new year celebrations and have successfully infected John with my annual redatt-ivity regarding this particular over-rated celebration over the years, so the only thing keeping us from an early bed is the bloody fireworks that the local villagers insist on letting off every year. Paolo Nutini is on the Hootenanny, however, so it’s not all meh.
John is fast asleep on the sofa and I am watching the countdown with a jaundiced and weary eye.
5… 4… 3… 2… 1…
Happy New Year, all.