Conversations with my husband.

"I like your smell. It is reminiscent of babies. Apart from your armpits, which occasionally smell a bit like curry."

I am a lucky woman.

Legs, breaths and other unconscious functionings.

Good lord.

I am rubbish.

I have not blogged and by gum I am rubbish.

I have no excuse. None at all. I have been a bit busy, but really that is it.

Last week I spent most of my time in a sort of tizz of bonkers - the whole moving out thing frankly made me go a bit freaky in the head.

I spent a while mulling over why exactly that should be. In between managing the breaths. The ones that were stuck in my chest and stuff.

And I thought some things. Like how this flat is where I was pregnant, and if I move from here it will be like leaving that behind and I don't know if I'm ready. And how my parents are moving too, from the house in which I grew up. And about home and hub and our new seaside life.

I don't know if any of that, or rather, being aware of any of that is good or helpful or a way to make a perfect flat materialise onto the compulsively refreshable pages of rightmove.

But I feel a bit better this week.

(Also, we booked our holiday. We are going to Scilly. Which for me is a bit like saying we are going to the land of dreams and gorgeousness.)

Also, I have cramp in my leg.

I do not know if that is related.

Tig

Well. Just as I was wondering about what on the face of this wide and encompassing earth I could blog, along comes Cliff in a most helpful fashion and tags me.

Like in the playground with kiss chase.

But no actual kissing.

Or in fact virtual kissing.

Which is probably for the best since Cliff and I are only newly acquainted and I have learnt my lesson about scaring boys away by snogging them too soon.

Or at all.

And now I'm married anyway.

Which is great!

So.

The meme.

(If any of you are still with me.)

I take a book I am reading, turn to page 123 and then tippety type the next three sentences. For your amusement and delictation.

Now I want you to ensure that you take my current reading list as a measure of me doing my homework, and not as a measure of my mental health.

Please.

1. Mad Bad and Sad by Lisa Appignanesi

Doctor's, in Alice's experience, were the only men who ever laid hands on her body. The touch could be restorative, but it was also humiliating as she made clear in a letter of 1886 to William when she once more needed help:

It may seem supine to you that I don't descend into the medical arena, but I must confess my spirit quails before any more gladiatorial encounters.

- Ten points for anyone who can a) pronounce her surname or b) explain to me the meaning of supine as used in this sentence.

2. Carl Rogers: A Critical Biography by David Cohen

He had no intention of cutting back on therapy, for he saw the counselling room as his laboratory, and said that his seven to ten clients a week gave him most of his new ideas.

More stress on empathy.

In the negotiations before he was appointed, Rogers had asked for the university to provide some backing for reseach - and help in raising money.

- Is "more stress on empathy" strictly a sentence being as it has no verb?

3. The Essential Difference by Simon Baron-Cohen

So competition in systemizing could lead a person to be the best at making a plough or a spear, a musical instrument or a home, thus achieving a higher social rank. Some tasks that require good systemizing, such as tracking animals or inventing a new tool, take a long time. They might take days, months or years.

- Mostly I am just wondering if Simon Baron-Cohen is in any way related to Sasha Baron-Cohen. Ten points for anyone who can clear this up. And tell me exactly how long it would take to invent a new tool.

So, who shall my victims be?

In a totally non-kissing way (I am COMPLETELY professional) I tag Caroline, Chasing Sheep (all of you, there's no escape!) and Bedside Crow (Ha ha! He is a bookseller, he will be reading LOADS of books!)

And also, just as we had decided we could afford to go on holiday.

Now listen.

If I were not such a well brought-up young lady, this post would be full of the most terrible language you can imagine. Full I tell you!

Just as it felt like things were finally getting back to normal.

Just as we felt like, yes, we moved by the seaside and now we can enjoy it and not be worrying about hurty things.

And just as we made the garden look really pretty. (Like, really, actually.)

We get a letter from the landlord giving us two month's notice because he is going to sell the flat.

In many ways, fucking cunty-arse cock-monkeys.

You know?

So does anyone happen to have a flat in Brighton with a garden they want to let to us for not very much money at all?

We are nice and not weird in many ways.

If that helps.

*Whispers*

The husband has built a computer.

I love him very, very dearly, but my goodness it is boring.

And I am one of these digital age types.

(He is currently swearing a lot and saying "it'll be the voltages because there's nothing wrong with the components, I'm trying to access the hard drive.")

Dearly I love him, but honestly.

Why can we not talk about cake?