Angry days.

I am a seething bag of fury at the moment. It has been steadily bubbling since Friday, when more than half of the people who bothered to vote in the EU referendum chose to make our country worse. It hasn't been my first taste of political frustration (erm, last May anyone?) but it has hit me much harder. I feel actual nausea, how did this happen?

And THEN, I found out that my application to work three days a week was rejected. Although not yet clear on the reasons, it has really made me angry. Angry because I am effectively being forced to choose between my career and my family. Angry on behalf of all womenkind.

Is it any wonder that there are so few female CEOs or senior management or directors? I have of course heard it all before, but somehow it didn't sink in. I guess it wasn't relevant to me, and I didn't think about the mechanics. Well, now it is.

I am furious because I'm not done working yet. Me and my parents and various previous employers have invested huge amounts in training me up to be a valuable asset. I could have the best qualifications in the world, but because of the lack of flexibility in the medium term (two years), I am looking at chucking it all in to work as a school secretary, or a waitress.

Not exactly the role model I wanted to be. So bloody predictable. And to top it off, we'll have to move out of London and live amongst the Leave voters.

The news.

It's been quite I while since I felt compelled to write. My voice feels increasingly irrelevant, and in the wake of yesterday's news continues to be, but I finally feel compelled again. 

Today, Rae turns one. I have just been up with her shushing and patting and feeding and squeezing and crying. And now it's 4:30am and I've come back to bed to write a blog post. 

Once upon a time I was obsessed with the news. All through my life I can date things I have done by events in the national and international press. I would scour my favourite news sites before I got out of bed every morning and any time I got a couple of minutes to spare throughout the day. I participated in lively discussions about current affairs. Not any more. 

I've always been emotional but since being ill and having children it's become ridiculous. I cry at everything, I've learnt to hide it quite effectively most of the time. Adverts get me, songs, my own mental thoughts, but worst of all, news stories. 

A few months ago now I stopped reading the news. I went cold turkey and at first I got loads of time back and revelled in my complete ignorance of what was going on in the world. I actively shunned conversations about the refugees, about economic cuts and our completely out of touch and cruel government. It felt comforting to not think about it, protected from the bad news. 

I feel guilty about it though. I don't like reading about, particularly the refugees, because I feel guilty, and unfairly lucky. It reminds me what we have, and the fact I have done nothing to deserve the good fortune of being born in the UK, to intelligent, kind and hard working parents. To have a family of my own, and a support network I can rely on. A house. Maternity leave. Two heart wrenching children. A life. 

I feel guilty for what I have in comparison, and I feel guilty for not having the emotional resilience to read about others or be able to help. So I have basically stuck my head in the sand. 

Social media is now my main pointer to world events, which is hardly a good indicator - my faith shattered after the Tory win in the general election last year (still hurts). 

Already emotional about Rae's impending first birthday, and my dreaded return to work, yesterday's shooting and stabbing of an mp has really got to me. Regardless of the political leanings of the victim, this is shocking news - have we really come to this? I can't quite get my head round it.

But then to hear about Jo Cox and the integrity and intelligence and kindness that she is, and the dignity of her husband in the wake of disaster, the fact she is northern, compassionate, an incredible role model for our children, a mother. I can't understand the unfairness, I am so upset. 

And once again I am given some perspective. There are more important things than poos on the kitchen floor and who last emptied the dishwasher. Today, Rae turns one. I want the best world possible for her to grow up in, people like Jo Cox to inspire her. 

I think it's time I started listening again. 

Onwards.

A while ago, it became apparent that we'd lost the charger for our good camera. Inertia kicked in and nothing happened for a while, but then Oliver bought a new one. Last night I went through the photos on the card and had a very timely overview of our 2014.

As a whole, it has been a great year. Alfred has grown from someone who could barely sit up to a fully functioning toddler, and it has been fascinating to watch. We've been away loads and had a brilliant time with friends - all captured on this card. 

But then there's a big black hole since September. No photos, on either camera. No positive memories at all. Just a whole elongated pain in the arse, which I am now going to list so that I have proof in years to come that it genuinely has been "a hard time".

• Teeth
  Bloody teeth! Why aren't they just born with teeth? I used to roll my eyes and yawn when parents moaned about their kids getting teeth. "You chose to have a child, and it's a well known fact that children grow teeth. Deal with it". The reality is of course that I don't care about the actual teeth, I care about the sleep deprivation on top of a full time job. Two solid months of four hours sleep a night, simply isn't enough, when it's impossible to catch up during the day.

• Burning bottom syndrome
  I don't know what this really is, but basically it seems that when our child is ill, his body rebels by expelling pure acid into his nappy every five minutes, which swiftly dissolves the skin on his bottom. Cue pain, upset, and more sleep deprivation.

• Aeroplanes
  Put it this way: I am not stepping on another plane with Alfred until he is 16.

• Broken electronics
  First it was Oliver's Macbook Pro, it proper just died. Then the iPad, with it's cracked screen. Then, of course, my Macbook Pro. The screen mysteriously cracked itself one day... I still haven't got it fixed due to the fear of having to remortgage to pay for it. But I probably should get it seen to.
  
• Upstairs builders
  Our upstairs neighbour (who is lovely, you couldn't ask for a better neighbour) has unfortunately employed some cowboys to renovate her flat. They have taken ten weeks (so far) to do a three week job. They are incapable of speaking at normal volume and have taken up the floor, so I can pretty much hear them breathe - let alone drill and bang and thump around. Getting a child to sleep is tough enough at the best of times. Humph.
  
• Leaks from upstairs builders
  We've had six leaks (and counting) of varying seriousness from the resulting chaos of the upstairs builders. Those are the ones we know about. The worst of these poured through the bedroom ceiling onto our bed, ruining our (incredibly expensive) mattress, the cover, topper, quilt, pillows and will to live, the week before Christmas.
  
  Insurance is a great thing, but they don't compensate for sleeping on the living room floor every night. And for the added sleep deprivation caused by both of us being up with the toddler during his 'refusal to sleep' period, as there isn't another room to use. And the fact that my dad couldn't come to stay for Christmas. This whole experience has made me very sad. I love our bed, it's my favourite place in the world and I hate that some idiot left a tap running and ruined it, just like that. 

• Smoke alarms
  Another consequence of the leaky builders is that they short circuited the electrics running the smoke alarms in the whole building. There are four in total, and they all went off at different times during the same night, on various floors, in different flats. Oliver, (in my head dressed as a superhero, with earplugs) heroically located and smashed each of these as they went off, dodging buckets catching leaks, in pitch darkness, armed with a "big nail" apparently...

• The crack head
  We were woken early one Sunday morning (one of the rare ones when Alfred was actually asleep) to a suicidal crack head on the door step in the throes of a panic attack, searching for Wesley. I added this in for comedy value, but it wasn't very funny at the time.

• Hand foot and mouth
  In itself, not a very serious disease at all and nothing to do with cows. Alfred managed to get a secondary infection, a nasty rash all over his face and bottom and parts of his legs. He was uncomfortable, with a temperature, unable to eat and generally miserable - and awake - for about two weeks. Enough sleep deprivation already.
  
• Ebola
  My mum is out in Guinea, helping with the Ebola efforts, which of course is very commendable - as long as she doesn't get Ebola. It hasn't helped my anxiety.
  
• More teeth
  And then, out of the blue, I realised that we hadn't had any new teeth for a while. And so... yup here they come.
  
• Broken car
  Poor faithful Fergus. He has something wrong with him. The day before Christmas, when we needed him most (the supermarket closed at 5pm and I'd of course left it until the last minute) he packed up. Just like that. What we really needed was an extra little something to make the logistics of Christmas less smooth.
  
• Morning sickness
  Throughout all of this I felt like crap.

I've not been feeling the most positive about 2014, if I'm honest. Although lack of sleep seems to make everything just worse, so I put a lot of it down to that. Anything we own, of any value has been damaged. And I'm tired.

So it was really quite an eye opener to see months and months of fun on this memory card and realise that we've in fact had a great year overall, just a tough couple of months. It's almost the end of the year, and although it's an arbitrary line in the sand I'm looking forward to a new one and a chance to start afresh. 

Happy new year everyone, I hope 2015 treats us all kindly xx

October 2014

It's been two years now, since the surreal experience of being told I had a brain tumour. Last year I really succumbed to the memory of it. I spent ages explaining in detail to anyone that would listen, what happened when. I enjoyed prodding the scab of my still bruised psyche and in the process, pushed the patience of my closest ones to the limit.

I thought that it was a one year thing, and that I would then move on.

But here I am. Two years have passed and I'm still banging on. I can't stop thinking about it. I know exactly what I was doing at this time on this day two years ago. It's taking all my will power to not keep reminding people as each hour moves on. (Right now, we were in A&E and I was just about to go for the first scan. We didn't know yet. We didn't know.)

Today and tomorrow were dramatic. Although my day today is fairly mundane, in the background, I still feel low level adrenaline and anxiety. Poor naive us, sitting in A&E, oblivious.

I wonder if I'll ever move on.

Migraine terrors.

Aaaand back to reality. As predicted, today the migraine has mostly gone, and so has my imaginary tumour. Two days of a migrainous gunge-filled head has left me emotionally as well as physically reeling. The lingering sickness and fogginess, and the impulse to move my head the absolute minimum is so familiar to me. It's been a while, but my body remembers it well. The emotional repercussions are something else.

It has been one year, 13 weeks and a day since I had this kind of migraine. I can date it so well as that was the day they found my tumour. That day marked a big pin in my lifeline, a clean split creating a before and an after. And it turns out I had thought I could count migraines in the 'before' part.

Although I have had migraines since surgery, they have been totally manageable. I took two paracetamol and went to bed for a couple of hours. Felt rubbish for the rest of the day but was able to function as normal within 24 hours. I always knew this could have been pregnancy hormones, but there was just a tiny chance that surgery had improved them, for good.

I hadn't put much conscious thought into it but after yesterday I realise that, subconsciously, I believed I'd been cured. I haven't had a migraine for nearly ten months. Unheard of. And that was well easy to deal with. It has been a real blow coming to the realisation that I haven't been cured.

Before all this kicked off I lived in permanent fear of migraines. Not least because I can't work through them, and I feel like such a fraud taking time off work with no visible symptoms. Does anyone believe me? Does anyone know what this is like? It's isolating in the way that I can't even describe how wrong it feels. I used to get them regularly, about every two months. They would last three days and there was nothing I could do about it. No way of working and no way of escaping the horror.

I was walking paranoia. I avoided caffeine like the plague, ran away from camera flashes, didn't drive at night because of car headlights, and if out at night at all, would stare at my own toes just in case. Waiting for trains was a nightmare, they always have their lights on and catch one by accident entering a station? Blind panic for half an hour. I lived in fear. Don't even say the word in case it brings one on. Don't even!

But now they're back.

I'd been enjoying my migraine-free life, I've been drinking tea, not getting enough sleep or drinking enough water. I've been downright frivolous with camera flashes. It has been great fun, not living under the paranoia of a looming migraine. Now that I know I'm not cured, I don't see how I can avoid that paranoia again. It's been a depressing realisation to come to.

Work was one thing, I would have to call in sick no matter how much I didn't want to. There was no way I could work. The terrifying thing is, you can't call in sick to a five month old baby.

Stupid brain.

And so it begins. I have become incredibly skilled at compartmentalising worry. I used to be a right worrier, always planning and worrying. Worrying and planning. What if I'm late? What if I've got the wrong present? What if it rains? What if my brain tumour grows back?

I have learnt to let go of the worry by either working through the logic (take an umbrella, nobody will die) or by accepting there is nothing I can do about it (I might die, how will worrying help?). 

But sometimes I just worry. Before I've remembered that I don't worry anymore. 

Yesterday I got a migraine. Not like the ones I had during pregnancy, when a few paracetamols and a bit of sleep would sort it out. One like I used to get, back when I had a brain tumour. 

In the depths of a migraine it's difficult to act normally. The all encompassing pain, disorientating loss of vision, the full body sickness and something else indescribable makes me not quite function properly. I can't make decisions, I forget which drugs to take, I fumble and mumble and worry. This canNOT be normal. 

And so it begins. 

With the darkness surrounding the episode I am hardly at my most rational. I'll be fine tomorrow but I wanted to capture it. It's back, I can tell. I'm going to walk over the road and ask nicely for an MRI. Then I'll know. I'll be able to see a big white blob. A reason, an answer, everything fitting neatly into boxes with answers and solutions. (Although let's not think too much about solutions.)

I know it's ridiculous. But The Feeling is back, the gnawing, dawning, whining worry I must ignore to carry on. 

Roll on tomorrow, and normality. 

Ah yes, and HNY everyone, may 2014 treat you kindly xx

Bah humbug.

Being kind of Jewish, we didn't have Christmas when I was growing up. We had Hannukah (or Chanuka etc) instead, which was great, actually. I remember it as a really cosy idyllic family moment when it's dark outside and the fire is roaring in the hearth and we're all sitting around together. I'm sure it must have happened like that...

Anyway, I remember vividly the scorn I felt each January on returning to school. There was an annual competition to see who had the best Christmas presents. A bike? Just for Christmas? A telly? We didn't even have a telly and you got one just for you, for your bedroom? A video player?!

I told myself they were spoiled brats and materialism couldn't bring you happiness. So I told myself.

Throughout my university years I never went home for Christmas. I stayed behind and worked for double pay at Pizza Hut trying to guilt customers into bigger festive tips, and fed my friends' pet rabbits while they were away. I had a brilliant time.

Although I had no interest in Christmas, apart from the Christmas television schedule (I had one by now), I couldn't help feeling a self indulgent longing as I walked past houses with fairy lights and a warm glow seeping through the curtain gaps. It was mostly pretend longing though, like staring wistfully out of train windows when you're absolutely fine. I wonder how much of my life I live as if I was the central character in a film?

Fast forward to grown up years in grown up relationships - I am actually married I have to remind myself - and I finally do have a Christmas. Having done my best to resist joining in, I find myself actually enjoying the family get togethers and holidays-are-coming feeling. I love the communal cooking and the big family dinner and the stupid hats. I like sitting around afterwards with everyone, drinking wine and eating cold roasties until it hurts.

What I don't like is the presents. And here is the rant I've been building up to.

Firstly the pressure. I have been feeling it for months already and it's only just November. What the hell are we going to get everyone? The closer we get the more the panic sets in.

Secondly the guilt. What if our present doesn't match up to their present? Or what if our present totally crushes their present and they feel guilty? Either way you can't win, I feel the guilt.

Thirdly the cost. The more the panic and impending guilt sets in, the more likely I am to just buy something expensive to make up for lack of time and creativity. Cue more guilt.

Fourthly the sheer waste of it all. I would like to bet that the majority of Christmas presents go to that special unwanted present place in the sky. I'm not sure what's worse, giving a present that doesn't make the grade, or receiving one that doesn't. It's awkward. It makes me awkward. I don't know how to arrange my face.

I think I'd rather a more open system if we do have to do Christmas presents. Like a secret Santa type thing where you only buy one present for one person, and they buy one for someone else. Except it's not secret and you're allowed to confer. Wisdom of the crowds would hopefully help ensure that the present hits the mark.

Or alternatively everyone comes up with something that they want, and everyone else chips in to buy it for them. I spose the surprise element is somewhat missing though. But at least you'd get something useful, and you'd be contributing to something someone really wants. Warm smug glow.

Or what if we just all went out and bought ourselves something nice...

But this is my favourite idea: it's supposed to be the thought that counts right? So can't we just leave it at a thought? Let's all have a thought for each other and spend time together and enjoy each other. That's what I want for Christmas.


Oh and maybe a onesie.

Work rant.

Since I've been off on maternity leave, work has been playing on my mind. There is a massive global "company restructure" in the offing, and whole departments have been demolished. My department. And my team has already limped into obscurity. I thought it was odd my role didn't warrant maternity cover, and then my boss got "reassigned" just before I finished. That left one person... who subsequently moved on within weeks. So I'm waiting for a phone call.

I think it's unlikely I'll be made redundant, but given that I don't technically have a job right now I've been doing some thinking. What would I choose to do - if I had the chance to completely start again?

I'm dead jealous of Olly, he loves his job and has a great time doing it. He's so passionate about it he would rather work than be on holiday. I'd like to do something like that, if only I could discover what I enjoy.

I love being at home with Alfred. We've had such a good three months, way better than I was expecting, and I was expecting it to be pretty good too. We've done so many things and met so many people. Everywhere we go people want to know about him. And he smiles at everyone. He's great. And I don't want to miss any of his growing up.

Having said that... I miss work. I miss being on time and in control. And busy in a way that isn't to do with housework. Also, it's still a novelty (not being at work) which may well start to wear off soon.

How to combine both? (And earn enough to live on?)

Seeing as the movie rights to my life haven't been sold yet, and this blog doesn't make any money, and I can't think of a creative idea to write a book about, I'm going to have to do something employment wise. I've been looking around at ideas and I think I've had a good one. Not for me, but a company called Pepperberry. They specialise in making clothes for women with bigger boobs.

Rant warning! Coming up, a big old rant.

I contacted them last week with this idea which I thought was a no brainer, annoyingly they don't seem to understand and aren't interested in listening. The whole experience made me feel really helpless and frustrated. If this was my company I would jump at the chance to talk to people who want to contribute ideas. In this case I got stuck at the first line: customer service.

My idea is this. When people have a baby, they make loads of milk and consequently their boobs get bigger. If they breastfeed then this could be a long (ish) term effect (enough for them to have to buy new clothes to fit). This is potentially huge for Pepperberry, they get extra spend from existing customers as their size has changed, and they get incremental spend from brand new customers catapulted into the bigger boobed bracket.

We are now officially in a baby boom so this could be a big market. And in general the age that women have babies is being polarised, either really young, or (I hesitate to say really) old. Like me. I'm old enough to have a good job (still, hopefully) and enough money to buy nursing clothes.

Except - and here is the killer - they're isn't much out there to be found.

Pepperberry already specialise in one of the two requirements - clothes for bigger boobs. All that's missing is the ability to breastfeed in these clothes. No. Brainer.

My first reply from them explained that "Unfortunately we have no current plans to expand our range of styles to cater for maternity swimwear at present and I realise this will be disappointing for you". Well yes, I am disappointed - you clearly didn't read the email I spent ages composing. Maternity? Swimwear? Where did you get that from?

So I sent a quick reply just to clear things up, but didn't get any further. 

On the plus side, the whole experience made me realise something. Strategically, for Pepperberry, this would have been a good move to make (I believe), and setting it up would be a challenge. I would love to be involved in it. It made me see that I'd like to have a more strategic role, to be involved in something more fully, rather than just being a little cog sitting at a desk.

So I'm still thinking.

Sleepsleepsleepsleepsleep.

Sleep. Humph. I've got a difficult relationship with sleep. I used to take it for granted - in that I never used to think about it. I'm not sure when that changed but 'thinking about sleep' is something I do pretty much all the time now.

Through teenage years I was nocturnal whenever I didn't have to get up for something (school was such an inconvenience) and the rest of the time I was exhausted. It felt like I could never catch up. But it was at university that the insomnia started, brought on by stress of course work and stress from a bad relationship.

It seems like an old friend now, the insomnia. It is strange to be really tired, but not able to sleep. And it's like a vicious circle, the more it happens the more frustrated I get, which clearly doesn't help anything.

Over the years I've blamed many things (the bin men, the radiators, the cat, the husband, work, the sunshine, the mattress, the birds, the neighbours, the weather, the pregnancy, the baby - I actually could go on...) but I think it's time I just took responsibility for the fact that I am rubbish at sleeping.

I love being in bed. Big feathery quilt, lots of pillows and a good book. Especially when it's cold outside and I'm snug and warm. But sleeping? Somehow it doesn't quite make the top of the list of priorities.

I am the tiredest now that I've ever been in my whole life. By a long way. I can't make decisions and I feel spaced out. But I also feel fine. Apparently you get some hormone thing with breastfeeding and whatever it is, it's great. I haven't slept more that three hours in a row for six weeks and rarely more that five hours in total a night. But, somehow, I am not only functioning but I feel fine!

Everyone likes to say that you should 'sleep when the baby sleeps'. I have two problems with that. Firstly, when Alfred is asleep during the day, I finally get to run around and do all the things that you need two hands to do. Like go to the toilet. And hang the washing out. And also, read a book. It's the time I get to myself, to look at cats on the internet and take the two month old toe nail varnish off.

Secondly, the problem is waking up. I would rather die than wake up these days. It is so painful that I'd really prefer not go to sleep in the first place. The notes I wrote for this post (not really notes, just ideas I write down on my phone whilst feeding in the dead of night) say "But what the hell is this hell?" - crucially I only feel like that when I've just been woken up, five minutes later I am fine.

We have a funny old system for restoring ourselves. Sleep is fantastic when it works, but what if you could just take a pill and immediately feel the restorative effects of a full eight hours kip? Wouldn't it be good if evolution did away with the need to sleep? Or actually, maybe just the waking up part...




p.s. You know when you look at a word too long and it starts to look really odd and you begin to doubt that you've spelt (spelled?) it right or that it's even a word in the first place? How weird does the word 'sleep' look? Is that right? Sleep. Sleeeeeep. I think we all know what I should be doing right now.

Who am I?

It's been so long since I felt like me, that I don't even know if I would recognise it anymore.

I wish I'd had some warning, something to tell me to take a good long look at things as they are now, because it won't ever be the same again. I remember wishing I'd taken more notice of the way my head felt before surgery. Without bumps. And similarly I wish now that I'd really taken more notice of what life was like before any of this happened. Easy to say, looking back.

A couple of headaches, to a horrendous time preparing for surgery, to frustrating recovery, to being pregnant, to now. There was a time when I thought things would get back to normal after the surgery, and I even went running (about 200m but I was still quite pleased), but then I found out I was pregnant.

Things will never be the same again, and I will never be the same again.

Being pregnant is brilliant, except it isn't. Being pregnant is the promise of brilliance, without anything actually very positive happening. That you can see. Obviously something very positive is happening far out of sight. On the surface, it is physically hard and emotionally hard.

It isn't really the done thing to say negative things about pregnancy but Tanya Gold has inspired me.

I'm not me any more. I don't feel like me, I don't look like me (stupid hair) and I can't do any of the things that I would normally be able to do if I was me. I am weak, I can't sleep so I am permanently grumpy and I feel (although I realise this probably isn't happening it's just the hormones and lack of sleep paranoia) that noone is interested in me any more, other than things to do with the pregnancy. And I hate being so dependent on people.

I can't wait to have a baby, I can't wait to meet him and I can't wait to be one person again. Me.

Sleeping. Or, more accurately, not.

Warning: this post is a self indulgent rant. Formulated in my head over night and possibly (definitely) contributing to my inability to sleep.

I've always suffered from bouts of insomnia so this is nothing new. But since going back to work I need much more sleep than I did before surgery in order to function and concentrate properly. The effects of not sleeping are much worse now.

I found a great term in a trashy magazine at the hospital yesterday. It was an article about surviving 50 years of marriage, and mentioned "night rage" (as in, don't have it). I love this, my definition: irrational rage in the middle of the night aimed at any number of inanimate objects and / or unfortunate husband or cat. Something I could really learn from.

Last night was particularly bad and I found myself raging away. It isn't productive as I end up actively searching for things keeping me awake to add to the list. Plus the adrenaline caused by the outrage puts falling asleep into the realms of impossibility.

So my plan is to treat this as I would a work project. By exploring all the things that give me night rage, I can identify the ones I can do something about. Then do it. Then get some sleep.


Ok, let's go.

1. Lack of curtains. Easily fixed you might think, but requiring decisions. Difficult ones! We have a huge bay window with shutters on the bottom half. The curtain pole we inherited was never fixed on properly when we moved in, and finally gave up the ghost about a month ago, so we took it off completely.
   
   The question is though, blinds or curtains? Or both? The other question is, curtain pole or rail? And the other one is, fix the curtain pole (or rail) to the wooden frame or to the wall? And how much would it need to stick out in order to allow the curtains to fit over the shutters? And how to measure it properly, given the bends needed for the bay? Also - what colour curtains?
   
   I am paralysed by indecision. And awake.
   
   In other news, there's a street light ideally positioned just outside to shine directly in ones face at a certain point in the bed And if you move to avoid it, then it reflects in the wardrobe door - directly into ones face. Also, the sun has a habit of coming up each morning, and since British pretend summer time started recently I think that's probably going to get worse.
   
   
2. The bloody cat. In an attempt to find out if Oliver is allergic to said cat, she is no longer allowed in the bedroom. Plus, sometimes she makes this horrendous smell, which I won't go into. Not impressed by this turn of events, she has taken to scratching the bedroom door repeatedly in the dead of night. She even adds dramatic pause for effect, then starts up again. She has amazing stamina actually.
   
   
3. The radiators. Since the new boiler incident about two months ago, the radiators make a clicking, groaning, straining, hitting-self-with-spanner kind of noise every morning. It's really irritating. I'm always just waiting for the next click.
   
   
4. Being pregnant. Weeing. Or specifically thinking I need to wee when I know that I actually don't need to. Also, not being able to sleep on my front (preferred sleeping position for over 30 years) or back (in case of aorta-squashing). This results in major paranoia about whether I'm harming unborn child in my sleep, by depriving it of blood whilst merrily dreaming away. Ha. And another thing - heartburn. Sigh.
   
   
5. People breathing. And turning over. How dare they? Actually I'm adding this in for effect as Oliver is away this week so he really can't be held to account. I can't hear him breathing from Germany.
   
   
6. The bin men. Rudely awakening me (I know - I've used this already, and it isn't Wednesday). We have single glazed sash windows, which are lovely but not very good at sound proofing. Despite initial concern when we moved in about the level of outside noise, mostly it's fine. If an argument does happen to take place just outside our window, I generally find it quite easy to drop off to sleep again (plus it's quite entertaining).
   
   The bin men on the other hand, Jeez Louise. Do you have to make such a song and dance about it? Will that bin lorry rev any louder? Can you make more of a crashing sound with each bin, getting closer and closer with each crash and shout... then sloooooowly, further away down the street? Maybe if you dropped the bins from a bit higher up you could get more volume going on the crash, but frankly I doubt it.
   
   And what - is every day bin day now?
   
   
7. The car alarm. I'm not sure it is a car actually, maybe a building somewhere opposite, but it goes off with alarming (ha ha) frequency. Only at night. See previous post when just out of hospital.
   
   
8. This blog post. Gah. I've been composing this all night in my head, which has inevitably been keeping me awake. It's now almost time to get up. The radiators have stopped clicking, the cat has given up scratching, the husband isn't here, the car alarm isn't screeching and the bin men are long gone. Even the street light has gone out - although it is broad daylight.
   
   Perhaps my time would be better spent getting a doze in instead of ranting on my iPhone.

Letter from the DVLA.

Timely, after I posted about this just yesterday.

Every time I get one, I'm simultaneously overtaken by excitement (at prospect of being able to drive again) and terror (in case it's a speeding fine, which - given that I haven't been driving for over six months - is highly unlikely. But it still get's me, every time).

It was a letter to say that they have received my application (hurray!) and that they've passed it on to some department (ok...) and that it will take another twelve weeks to get a response (boooooo!). They ever wrote twelve out in letters, contrary to the Guardian Style Guide, in order to disguise how many weeks it is. 12 weeks! Jeez Louise, what are they doing that can possibly take 12 weeks?!