Jean

When things were very dark a few years ago.

When I was tangled in an giant web of knotty despair and bleakness.

When I was alone one evening, gently rocking in a corner of the kitchenette and weeping until I thought I might accidentally drown the weird cat with my tears.

I rang the emergency number from my GP's surgery.

A lady answered.

I explained my predicament.

My fears for the weird cat.

That I wasn't entirely sure that I should strictly be living anymore, and I thought, at that moment, that maybe a doctor would be a good person to talk to.

The lady.

She was an introductory type person.

The person you tell what is wrong to and then she directs your call.

("Mad! I'm sure of it! Straight to the loony-bonkers dealer-withs!")

Anyway.

The lady.

I shall call her Jean.

(She sounded like a Jean.)

Jean.

I think she might have had short, curly, sandy-blonde hair.

She was about 45.

About.

Jean said to me a thing.

And whenever I accidentally get tangled in the knotty web and the big spider of doom is approaching, I think of the thing Jean said.

"Life is a great commodity."

(She had a slightly cockney accent.)

(And sounded like she smoked between twenty and thirty cigarettes a day.)

I have been mulling over Jean's assertion during the past week.

I think that largely, she is right.

And I am glad that one dark, weepy, hopeless evening, Jean was my receptionist.

So.

I have been trying to decide whether to tell you all the things or none of them.

(I know this does not shed much light for you, but it is possible that I need to warm up to this.)

(Quite a lot.)

Things have been not only horrid but also hard and rubbish with a sprinkling of completely shit.

Dear readers, I was pregnant.

I am not any longer.

Through no decision or choice or action of my own.

Just nature.

Y'know.

It has been a strange few months.

Finding out I was we were having a mini-us was a bit of a surprise. You could say. And we panicked a bit and did not know what to do and thought of how poor we are and all the Things that are like big pointy barriers.

Then we thought, fuck it.

And also, hooray.

Then I was sick. A lot. Really loads. I cannot really explain how much I was sick. I am pretty sure, however, that you will get over the lack of explanation and possibly even be grateful for it.

We went home for Christmas. We told people. They were pleased.

Then we went for a scan.

"I'm afraid I can't see a heart beat," she said.

And that was that.

But with weeping.

So I have been in hospital having operations and fainting on commodes and listening to nurses telling me that I should sniff things that really noone should ever have to sniff.

And now I am back home.

Feeling a bit empty.

Being overly affectionate towards the weird cat.

And wondering.

Y'know.

At life.

But with weeping.

A Lovely

Meg has done a lovely.

She's been doing it a while, but you know me, I'm new round these parts.

Or at least I was earlier this year.

ANYWAY.

My point is do this.

I think it's good.

Obviously I'll show you mine if you show me yours.

You know, once I've done it.

A cut above the rest.

So if, for example, one is doing some kind of supply teaching and is abandoned by the teacher without them explaining the disciplinary procedures.

If, let's say, one is in a primary school doing drama.

And if, let's conjecture, a child approaches you and claims another child has threatened to stab them with some scissors.

On examining the accused child, one finds them standing on a chair brandishing a pair of, indeed, scissors, waving them about over the heads of some other slightly less on-a-chair-scissors-brandishy children.

What exactly would you recommend in this sort of scenario?

Y'know, if it were to happen?

Morning

"Stupid cars," he says, "They're not even real."

He snuggles into my shoulder.

"They're virtual cars. So you don't need to worry."

"I see," I reply, smoothing down his sleep-rumpled hair.

"And what use is that toothbrush?" he mutters.

"Bloody Victorian chemists."

It is my birthday!

Shower me with birthday wishes!

I am not one of these "don't make a fuss" types. Make a fuss! A big fuss! I was born on this day some years ago! It is a cause for celebration!

The day thus far has brought a slightly concerning lack of enormous presents. I am aware, however, that there are still some hours left to go.

My hope continues to burn like a little bright birthday candle.

The sort that people blow out on birthday cakes.

When it is their birthday.

Like it is mine today!

Gosh, I do not know if I can cope with all the excitement.

Sheepish.

So.

I went all melodramatic on you.

Exciting wasn't it.

I've had a rough few weeks, uppy and downy and uppy again.

I will explain all.

But not yet.

If that's okay.

Suffice it to say that now I am at least back.

Mostly.

Able to write.

In as much as I ever was.

And, y'know, okay.

Just thought I'd let you know.