Six unspectacular things (or why I may need therapy)

Tagged by Mrs Slocombe for this meme about what makes us dull as dishwater.

Here are six unspectacular things about me:

1. I'm terrible at making friends and consequently have none in London (of my own, anyway).

2. For about a week in 1994, whilst in Amsterdam, my favourite meal of the day was breakfast, even though it was just ham and cheese sandwiches, manky hostel tea and chocolate sprinkles on bread.

3. I only ever like one outfit in my wardrobe at a time. The rest I force myself to wear for the sake of variety.

4. I don't know how to behave normally in front of a camera and so just pull faces or look away (like most people).

5. The only person I feel comfortable having any sort of physical contact with is Bruce. If I have to touch or be touched by others (as in friendly hugs, contact sports or team-building exercises involving hand-holding), I either feel repulsed or unworthy, depending on who it is.

6. My hair is too fine for the shape of my face.

You gotsta:

1. link the person who tagged you
2. mention the rules on your blog
3. list 6 unspectacular things about you
4. tag 6 other bloggers by linking them

Did you not read my first unspectacular thing? Oh let's see then. Lass, lynn, Lacking, thebeesknees, Emmms and dominguez.

I hope you don't mind

I met Bruce under very unusual circumstances, to say the least. We only spent a week or so together before deciding, independently of one another, that we’d finally found our match.

Of course, I only knew this intrinsically, and was pretty oblivious to the fact that Bruce was several steps ahead of me in acknowledging the reality of our situation outright. He’d even made this plain in an email he sent a few days after I left London to attend a wedding in Poland, when I was still feeling unsure of whether or not I’d ever see him again - such was my faith in both love and people.

But my feelings were stronger than any doubts I harboured about his sincerity, and whereas this would have caused me a great deal of trouble in the past, I’d somehow blundered into the most appropriate avenue for this vulnerability, thank god. I loved him more than anything or anyone, and part of me – well, all of me - didn’t want to know if it wasn’t reciprocated.

I still feel that way. I don’t mean that I doubt his feelings for me, but one thing I do know is that love is a complete contradiction: the more you love, the better you feel, which renders the act of giving more selfish than generous. I will always believe that I get more out of loving Bruce than the reverse, but I’m okay with that, so long as he is. Call me selfish.

Anyway, I came across this song again on my iPod, which I first heard on Bruce’s now defunct MySpace page. I was still stupidly unsure about how he perceived the situation, because we hadn’t been any more explicit than two people living halfway around the world from one another can manage without irony in an email or a phone call. But I flicked onto his page, and there was the song, and it was like an atomic bomb went off in my chest. He hadn’t put it there to be interpreted by anyone, obviously, and yet from that moment on, all the beautiful music in the world started to sound like something he’d created just for me. It still does.

Discover Spiritualized®!

First clothes, new cabinet

A few of my favourite things

One of my colleagues is being sexually harassed on our site by someone she used to work with; the fallout from this has pretty much taken up my entire lunch hour. As such, all I have time for is a list of five things I love but rarely acknowledge, even to myself. Just thought it was about time I gave them props!

In no particular order:

Canned pop from a hotel vending machine – I don’t know why, but these seem to be so much colder than canned drinks from any other machine. I don’t normally get wound up about canned pop, but given the shipwrecked nature of hotel rooms, a very cold drink can feel almost luxurious in that particular setting.

The smell of gum, newsprint and tobacco – making gift shops and newsagent stands one of my all time favourite places to loiter, when I have the time (which is never).

Floating on my back in the ocean, or the sea, or even a pool – the most liberating feeling I know. That’s above flying, which fills me with terror, even though I’m mostly over the phobia now.

Hotels in general – I’ve stayed in countless hotels but I still get excited about it every single time. Typically, I have the best sleep of my life, provided the pillows aren’t too hard or lumpy. And regardless of quality, I like the idea of going downstairs to have a meal, especially if it's breakfast. I even like having a drink in the skeezy hotel bar, right before going up to the room for bed. I suppose it feels like living in a very big house, where all your needs are met but nobody expects anything in return (except £100 a night) and nobody keeps tabs on you either. It's an agoraphobic's paradise really, and having once had agoraphobic tendencies, I can still appreciate this.

Planning vacations – taking holidays is nice, but thinking about a holiday and trying to envision what it will be like is 80% of the enjoyment for me.

You know, I didn’t realise the common link between these items until I’d written them down. I guess I must subconsciously love holidays as much as I do consciously.

Long since spoiled, but: SPOILER

Bruce and I are probably the last people on earth to have seen The Happening (well, of anyone who’d planned to see it I guess). Similarly, we were determined to be the only people on earth who did not hate it entirely.

We were doing a rather good job of it too: humming and hawing about how it was a little cheesy but not so terrible, and wasn’t he sort of trying to emulate Hitchcock? (my ingenious love spotted this), however unsuccessfully, and the premise was good, it’s only unfortunate that the writing had to be so terrible. And the acting. And the plot. And that’s when it all started to fall apart.

There were even some unforgivably stupid moments, such as when the train stopped in the small town and refused to take them any further, so they all congregated in the diner. After hearing a news report about how they were smack in the middle of all the trouble, a disembodied voice cried out: “This isn’t happening 90 miles from here, c’mon let’s go!” and everyone sped off in their cars except for the leads. Marky Mark was uselessly trying to hitch a ride for himself and his bug-eyed girlfriend and their surrogate child, crying desperately as the last car raced away, “We haven’t got a vehicle!”

And I turned to Bruce and asked, Should any of them have vehicles? They all arrived on the same train!

Absent too was the famous M Night Shyamalan twist, and if there was one, he gave it away straight off (I realise a twist can’t be given away straight off, but in the absence of anything else, I imagine he’d counted on us forgetting the important little aside about nature’s inexplicable…well, nature). I mean, at the very least, the guy who had a good relationship with plants should have met a better end than an off-camera gun-shot to the head. The famous twist was also absent from Lady in the Water, though, which makes me think M Night has finally made enough money to shed the restrictive conventions of mainstream cinema to pursue his real passion: bad student art films.

So even with the negative press in mind, I was still quite disappointed with the experience and can only imagine how people who paid to see it in theatres must have felt. Actually, I do know how they felt. One of the posters in the underground on the Northern Line was scratched out and defaced so that the letters in the title following the director’s name read:

DICK

Creative solutions, I know.

Still, you have to admire the guy. Most people find success with a book or a film and then spend the rest of their lives struggling with their egos in order to produce a handful more that might live up to the first.

Mr. Shyamalan is obviously fearless about trying things out and potentially failing, which should give all of us courage to keep doing what we love, brambles and berries and nuts and bird droppings in and amongst the laurels we try on and toss away.

Progress

My tumultuous love-hate relationship with London has swung back to love again, and last night was the first time I was properly able to enjoy the city minus the sensation of full-on nausea. It made me realise, too, that the little things which seemed to make all the difference when I was sick (poor customer service, crowded transport, a bit of extra smog) are, in the happy glow of my second trimester, just that: little things.

Hold these up to the elements of my former life (uninspired cultural environment; death-defying winter temperatures; self-important, small-minded neighbours), and that’s practically like snubbing paradise because you saw a spider.

Work, personal accomplishment and family will always be major undertakings, no matter where you live, and I’m just thankful to have anchored myself in one of the most exciting, dynamic places on earth while I sort through these.

That’s if you asked me today, anyway.

Returning to Canada has also led to a more acute appreciation of the independence I’ve finally achieved here. When things got tough with the pregnancy, I rued the loss of former parental resources that once included rides to work, free meals and occasional help around the house. But these fringe benefits of living close to family come with their own price, and I’d have been handing back the keys to adulthood for the privilege of a few creature comforts – an uneven exchange by anyone’s standards.

I doubt I’ll ever go into detail here about what took place during our two week stay with my folks, but were it not for Bruce, rest assured I would soon be sending them the divorce papers with visiting rights on the unlikely proviso that they seek professional help and keep their sticky issues away from my psyche. I love them dearly, though I’ve had to concede that a distantly fostered ideal is much better for my sanity than getting up-close-and-personal with the reality.

Anyway, cue final credits for Doogie Howser M.D., Sex and the City, The Wonder Years, whatever. I’m finished reflecting on this now. What I really wanted to say was that last night at dinner, our friend Matt said that he couldn’t imagine not having children, but he couldn’t really imagine having children either, and hence didn’t know whether he’d ever be ready to make a decision, either way. And it made me think about my own attitude towards readiness for parenthood, which seems to change with each hospital visit, abdominal twinge and new bit of information gleaned from newsletters, friends and family.

What I ended up telling him seemed to solve the dilemma Bruce and I were having ourselves, which is that parenthood is not something you can imagine doing until you're in the midst of it, so there’s no point in trying. All you can do is go with the experience at every stage and wonder at the miracle of getting through it intact and even happier than you were before.

Whether you’re thrown for a loop, or whether being a mum or dad is something you’ve been getting ready for your whole life, nobody has the upper hand on preparedness. But hopefully everyone is pleasantly surprised by what happens next.

Rhetorical maybe

I sometimes wonder if the things you loved about me at first are still apparent to you. Or whether they amount to a most fortunate misconception we shed like a wrapper off a bar of chocolate after purchase. Or, worse, if they fell into place like a single puzzle piece, its outline fading into the background of a mundane landscape.

Not as often, mind you.

Snips and snails, sugar and spice

Yesterday I was offered a seat on the underground for the first time. Bruce often wondered aloud who would be the first person to spot my condition without having been told, and now we know. Her blue eyes bulged with concern and she scolded: “You should’ve said something!” I’m not quite sure what I would say though, in this case. I’ve got a loaded womb – give me the seat or I’ll puke in your lap! There’s no easy way to ask.

Our second, mid-pregnancy scan was much gentler overall than our first. The ultrasound technician was Jeremy – a kindly, broad-featured South African in his late forties, with tousselled hair and fine, wire-frame specs; he looked like he must spend his free days chopping wood for the fireplace, playing Handel in the kitchen while making soup and then applying paint to model trains with a tiny brush in a dimly lit basement.

He squinted amicably at the information on his screen, turning the wet wand this way and that to get a better look at all the parts. “Do you want to know the sex, if I can spot it,” he asked before he began, and we said yes. After what felt like several agonising minutes where I couldn’t read Bruce’s expression and had given up on Jeremy’s altogether, he said that everything looked normal. He showed us the arms, the hands and fingers, the long narrow bones of the legs ending in feet, and the details of the face and spine. And then he asked again if we wanted to know what it was.

Do you?

Probing for a good look at the genitalia, Jeremy laughed kindly and said, “Well, it’s not 100% accurate, but in my opinion, it looks like you’re going to have a little boy.” He said this with a warm, low smile in his voice. And he twisted the wand until the tiny little scrotum came into focus.

And then I basically ruined the moment by looking woundedly at my very excited husband and asking him if he’d have been as happy with a girl. Because I am an over-analytical, emotionally-retarded idiot at times (always then), and for a second believed that what I was seeing wasn’t rejoicing at the news of a healthy baby but relief that it wasn’t the girl every person in our family save for my sister had predicted.

Even if there had been some relief mixed in with his reaction though, it’s completely understandable, as Bruce has spent his entire life in the exclusive company of girls and women. It’s about time we upped the testosterone levels around here, and even though I don’t know a thing about little boys or how their brains and bodies work, I still have a hard time not crying when I think of how lovely our lives are going to be from this point onwards.

My own reactions to news always come much, much later, when things begin to sink in finally, like they’re doing now.

Ocean time

There are, there really are, worse things in life than being at work on the Thames during a rain storm on 1.5 hours of sleep. Remind me to tell you about those things sometime; at the moment I’m preoccupied with keeping my eye trained on the inching clock and desperately trying not to do what I did earlier on the underground (a feeling of passing-out-meets-vomiting-meets-coronary-meets me slumped over for a short while).

This afternoon we’re going for our second and final ultrasound before being left to our own imperfect divination with regards to the health of this growing potential. It’s right here, beneath my fingers at times, and yet it all seems to be happening on some distant planet, news reaching us by way of sonar reverberations light years away, as yet indecipherable.

So we’ll know how many appendages and if a brain or heart or how shapely a spine, and if conversation could progress beyond these essentials, these very essential essentials, then possibly a sex. Inquiring minds would like to know just which imaginary who we could be dealing with.

In any case, I’ve had no sleep and don’t think I could manage bad news. Wish me a baby.

The Bible rubs shoulders with Angela Carter

Well, my holiday in Canada is drawing to a swift close. I'm not sure how I want to commemorate the experience online, if at all, though I do want to say that a vacation rarely ever offers a break from life, and that a long break from family rarely ever results in happier visits. I'd do well to keep that in mind the next time I plan a trip to the homeland, and also to make damn sure we have our own place to stay.

Still, the bits that weren't fraught with the overanxious, clingy neurosis of my parents' suggestive hive mind were just what I was hoping for, and we do plan to return to these things next summer independently (for a longer period, and with our new addition).

If I felt there was something essential missing from my life in London, it certainly isn't here, though I do wish I could rescue all my books.

Hey: 21 weeks today! I think I feel little bursts of movement, but I'm not entirely sure.

See you back there.

So cool it hurts

I have tried to write about my experiences of being back in Canada on a few separate occasions, and under the influence of various mood-altering family members/scenic routes/local cuisines, without success. So instead, I present you with a meme nicked from Mrs. Slocombe’s fine page.

Having looked more carefully at the rules, I’m suddenly unsure of how one would go about pretending to be cool with this meme. Presumably we’re all under the impression that our taste in music is impeccable. If we could come up with anything ‘cooler’, well. Then I guess we’d have downloaded it by now.

Though I’m not actually sure how Metric ended up there, so.

1. Open your music library (iTunes, winamp, media player, iPod, whatever)
2. Put it on shuffle
3. Press play
4. For every question below, type the song that’s playing
5. New question — press the next button
6. Don’t lie and try to pretend you’re cool

Opening credits: “Say Valley Maker” Smog
First day at school: “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Your Grievances” Daniel Johnston
Falling in love: “At the Break of Day” Bonnie Prince Billy
Breaking up: “Want” Rufus Wainwright
Prom: “Say You Do” TV on the Radio
Life’s Okay: “Flight Tonight” The Avalanches
Mental breakdown: “In the Warm Room” Kate Bush
Driving: “Hustle Rose” Metric
Flashback: “Strayed” Smog
Getting back together: “Speed is the Key” Sugarcubes
Wedding: “Heaven” The Rapture
Divorce: “Let’s Hear That String Part Again” Sufjan Stevens
Current Mood: “If You Find Yourself Caught In Love” Belle and Sebastian
Final battle: “Breakin’ the Law” New Pornographers
Death scene: “Wind is Blowing Stars” Laura Viers
End credits: “Today Will be Better, I swear!” Stars
Leaving Theatre: “Falling Man” Blonde Redhead

Through flight

Wading through life is a bit like trying to dig a hole in soft sand – you can scoop out as much as you want, but the grains of its circumference will tumble back in as surely as the tide licks in and out with each stroke of a moon.

The boiler’s been replaced, hot water restored, flat cleaned and sorted, laundry washed and folded, lists drawn up and calls made. And still I’m coming down with flu.

And still we’re flying out on Saturday.

And the Saturday grains mingle with the grains of impending flu until the two are so indecipherable, I can’t tell if we’re flying out of rain or into sun; if I’m digging a tunnel or burying myself alive.

So I’m fixing my gaze on being there, however quickly the hole fills and whatever happens in the interim, because regardless of how I perceive these physics, I am going on holiday.

There is no other dimension.

I'd rather be the ugly duckling

I’ve been working not too hard at getting though my x365s, as you can probably tell. It’s taken me over a year to write twenty five of them. But seeing as how I’m at least bothering to stick to the word count rule (only as many words as years of your life) and most x365ers show flexibility in some way or another, I won’t be too hard on myself.

The problem isn’t cutting back on words so much as trying to nail down the individual. So many faces vie for attention, and then one finally pops into place like a bingo ball and there’s nothing I can do about it. Obviously, you don’t always have a glowing report for every person in your life either, or can be sure they aren’t reading your blog. But on the other hand: who cares! It’s a blog, not a livelihood.

Speaking of which, I can’t wait to get away from work for a solid two weeks. The culture here is driving me nuts, for one thing, and for another, I’m not overly fussed about the work itself. As soon as I get that promotion they've been promising I might just have to change my tune, but this bird don’t sing for free, yo.

A colleague of mine was telling us how he had to beat a swan with a branch nearly five times before it gave up trying to drown a Canada goose for getting too close to its children or something. He did this not because he had any particular affinity for the victim (and swans know people in high places in this here country) but because his young daughter was in hysterics over the scene.

I had no idea that a swan would have the compulsion to drown a goose in the first place, let alone the ability, but live and learn. It only strengthens my conviction that beauty gives most people/places/things more than enough leverage to behave like assholes.

Anyway, that same colleague is now clearing his throat repeatedly, I guess to get me to look at the time, it being a few minutes beyond lunch. But that’s what happens when you give me content at the eleventh hour. I take lunch. And sometimes I go over.

x365: 25 of 365 - Mrs. V

You ridiculed me in grade six for using ‘devastated’ to describe failure. Is it because you didn’t believe I knew what it meant? Or because my average mark didn’t endorse the sentiment?

Recipe for Sunday and other matters

Sunday: you good for nothing day of the week. But I’m learning to take it in stride.

Hot chocolate and strawberry jam on baguette, eggs chuckling in hot oil. Swab the jewel cases of CDs, the plastic bodies of boot sale cameras, the miniature Che Guevaras - return them to tenderly dusted shelves.

Paddle unhurriedly through the thick, yellow hours. Boil kettles, pots and pans for a bath; fog stipples the bay windows, creeps damply across wood floors.

Mad Men and mountain music, Bruce fixes the letter ‘n’, partially. I love him to the balls of his eyes, which he insists are green, though they’re often blue, or overcast.

Pots steam on the gas range. Laundry hangs in the damp bedroom, the picture window sweating. Lamps seal out the gloom, and it rains cold, misty rain you can really imagine, dashed down haphazardly into lush shrubbery.

Red grapes glisten in white crockery. Swiss roll for afters. The sun makes a surprise guest appearance and dries away the remaining minutes before tea.

Next weekend we’re on holiday. God help us though, we’ve bought another lens. Medium format, and there is so much more to account for.

I’m eighteen weeks along and in good health. Perfect health, actually. For once, I’m not arguing.

Friend or foe

Each time Yuan sees me now, she reaches out a hand to cup my ill-formed paunch (instead of pregnant, I look like I’ve just consumed a platter of burgers) and exclaims loudly. She does this not to gauge the growth of my very young tadpole, but to indicate to others in the vicinity that I am in a family way, and she a close ally.

It’s the same behaviour she exhibits when I say, “Let’s take a look at the showers in the basement” if I’m contemplating on using them because our boiler at home broke (it did) and she announces to the room, “Yes, you should be able to use these. You remember where they are? You go down to the basement and turn RIGHT. Okay?”

Because it pleases her if she can make me seem like a simpering idiot that needs all the help she can give me.

Today in the stairwell, after the shower fiasco, she cupped my belly again and then ogled my massive mammary glands for a moment before decidedly reaching out and poking these as well: They are so HUGE, Friday!

Yes, yes they are, Yuan. Thanks for the friendly reminder.

Our boiler broke, did I tell you? We haven’t had hot water for a few days, no thanks to the rental agency whose job it was to maintain the thing in the first place, and who is already waffling about sending over any but the least expensive tradesperson they can drum up. I have an appointment with a midwife tomorrow afternoon and I do not want to show up without having had a hot shower. Emphasis on hot.

Aside from being a princess who cannot condone a jet stream of less than 23 degrees Celsius on a good day, I am now a moderately pregnant woman who will burst into tears over a missing button on my top, or tomato sauce. Spluttering and shivering under an icy stream first thing in the morning, or leaning my growing uterus against the rim of the bath with a heated kettle in hand is simply not an option.

Anyway, no amount of railing at my poor defenceless husband or the bastards that put us in this position in the first place has made any difference whatsoever, so I’m left to direct my frustrations elsewhere. I’m at work, which is a dangerous prospect for all involved.

Here, read this – the BBC really knows how to make a gal feel safe about the prospect of giving birth overseas.

Oop! And more excellent reading material for the flight home next weekend.

I promise I’ll write something uplifting soon, like when somebody invents calorie free Haribos.

Uncut and uncensored

Lately I’ve been fighting the urge to run screaming back into the arms of Canada, Oh Canada, my home and native land. When I try and think of the specifics of what I’d gain from this escape, though, I come up empty handed.

My hometown is sleepy and predictable as ever, last I heard, and I’d probably go stir crazy within a few days of seeing it (given too that my current condition precludes indulging in the preferred pastime of locals – beer). Vancouver is too abstract a concept, my family an unhealthy illusion hastily erected by the trembling hands of unsubstantiated nostalgia, so that’s out.

Then a few things happened and I remembered why being here is good for me. The first thing that happened was I read a news story on the CBC website, about a man who killed and beheaded another, younger man on a Greyhound bus. It wasn’t the incident that gave me pause so much as the journalism, and then the attitude of the readers, conveyed through commentary.

News stories on the BBC website (and in many newspapers I read here) typically function as a series of pure, dispassionate vehicles for information. You can bet that if someone were decapitated in England, you’d get the details first and foremost. Any ensuing pieces would include further details as released by police or officials, and from this you could paint your own picture of what took place.

In Canada, news is nearly always a community event, and the community spends a great deal of time debating broadly through the singular voice of a newspaper or the disparate voices of its readership about what that event should mean. The man beheaded on a bus was sort of a no-brainer, but Canadians cannot be trusted to their own interpretations, thus we’ll throw them a few more maudlin headlines like “Man slain on bus had ‘a heart bigger than you can know’” - blatantly not news, but just in case you didn’t catch on the first time.

And as though in validation of this journalistic patronisation, readers give their poorly articulated (and often grammatically abhorrent) views on the matter, leaving comments riddled with religious propaganda at best and, at worst, racist slandering (the killer was of Chinese decent).

Reading the CBC website made me recall an aspect of Canadians I can’t abide, which is that even though we have plenty of educated, well-spoken individuals, the loudest voices (I hesitate to say bleeding heart Liberals and brainless Conservatives, but I can’t think of a better catch-all) are the ones that pollute the airwaves with utter nonsense. The better voices stand quietly by for the most part, out of politeness or for fear of dirtying their hands.

This is not exclusive to journalism either – impotence is a way of life for Canadians, and you see it in their politics, their profit and non-profit organisations, their arts & entertainment and various institutions. It makes a body feel more alone in the world than if she were to read a newspaper that inadvertently scrambled the communal impetus of a newsworthy topic, or travelled the busiest streets of the busiest city and found not one open face among its pedestrians.

So I’ve taken cbc.ca/news off my list of favourites and now that leaves the second thing that happened which made me realise that maybe I should sort out my differences with London and get on with my life here: a conversation with my mother.

There was nothing overtly wrong with how the conversation went. We speak every Sunday, and usually manage to struggle through with mostly happy results. But I suddenly had a flash of what life used to be like when my parents were no more than a ten minute drive - or an inexpensive phone call - away. And that unleashed a montage of imagery related to what holidays in Vancouver are actually like: frustrating, disappointing, and with mere flashes of repose, affection and rare exhilaration.

My family – exhausting and often mortifying to be around – are usually too self-involved to bother with one another, and that is the sad, honest truth.

But aside from the likely erroneousness of all this synecdoche, it is true what they say about escaping the self: wherever you go, there you are. And most of what needs fixing in my life has to do with how I perceive myself in relation to others in my environment, and the environment itself at times. I honestly believe (right now, breaking news) that it will be easier for me to do this here.

What's up

Because this is a weblog and not some book-of-the-week confessional, I instinctively try and keep things in perspective when I’m writing posts; even my short-lived tantrums should emphasize the trifling nature of what I do here.

This is precisely why it’s been so difficult to write about anything online lately. A very good friend of ours has had a family tragedy, and I’m afraid that by continuing to write here without mentioning it, I will somehow trivialise that happening, even if it’s not mine to write about. Suffice to say that we have not been ourselves since this weekend and are thinking a lot about our friend right now.

Our immediate situation is still massively affected by this lingering morning sickness, which is becoming increasingly difficult to just laugh off. I went to see the doctor last week about it, and after examining me, he said, “Yes, I believe this is pregnancy related.” Meaning: Welcome to your wall – please proceed to beat your head against it now.

Although I’ve been trying to branch out with my diet, the things I can eat without tipping the balance from malaise to outright nausea are so limited that I’m beginning to worry that my body will not have the nutrients it needs to recover from such a state.

Why a green leafy salad or two small oranges induces vomit whilst burger and chips stay down is an irony so profound I almost feel like someone is putting me on. If I believed in the concept of God, I’d be trying to work out how many times I put recyclable material in the bin or forgot to clean under my nails this month. It's gotten to the point where I'm scared to leave the house, and have been working from home these last few weeks, much to the chagrin of certain colleagues.

Our first visit with the midwives group was mercifully smooth, on the other hand. She put us at ease about the next few months, and let us listen to the heartbeat of our imminent child, an awe-inspiring pleasure I've experienced twice now. I have another appointment with them in early August and then Bruce and I are leaving this country - where boys and men are stabbed to death and women are assaulted at their own hairdresser’s - for a solid two weeks.

Bruce is concerned that I won’t want to come back with him, given how much I miss home and tend to closely relate internal and external states. But I know which side my bread is buttered on.

Thanks to all of you for your lovely notes, emails, suggestions and well-wishes. I know it’s not the first time on earth a woman has gone through a pregnancy, but it might as well be when you’re going through it for the first time yourself. Such is every life-altering experience I guess - at least if your imagination doesn't extend to housing avacado-sized people in your abdominal area.

x365: 24 of 365 - Ellen

We (I) wanted details. Your diary: Darren’s a fucking prick (slow-dancing with a camper; thrilling betrayal). I sent you colour-coded mail. We (I) once looked you up. Alone, I’d dial the number.

None like it

Since my relapse on Monday, I’ve been working from home, which means that apart from a shopping trip Bruce insisted I take with him (I did feel a little more human after the walk) I’ve basically been a recluse for the last three days. This is how I want it to be right now, though. Even the sun, which I usually crave and can’t get enough of, seems mocking under these circumstances.

This evening, I have my first appointment with a midwife, and although it won’t entail any major surprises (blood work, a Q&A), I’m still feeling anxious about the whole thing. My initial visit and scan did nothing to inspire confidence that subsequent trips won’t be equally confusing, scary and humiliating, so my expectations are really low at the moment.

When I feel this way - ill, disoriented, nervous – I always start to miss That Place Formerly Known as Home. Never again will I be scooped up by my dad’s waiting car, transported to my childhood house (now sold) and set up on their king-sized bed for a quiet hour alone while they chat away in the next room with Bruce.

I know my parents and I have had our differences, and visits have always been fraught in some way, but familiarity in itself is a comfort few other instances can afford.

And I can’t believe that given all I do have – independence; a nice place to live; a good job; a lovely husband – I’m being such a child about this. But I’m just plain scared right now, and I want to see my horrible family.

Four more weeks until Canada.

So soon she spoke

This morning was an unpleasant mixture of denial and vomit – denial over the fact that I was feeling ill again; vomit for obvious reasons.

Having told friends, my family and colleagues that I’m finally over morning sickness, I’m not really sure where to go from here (the toilet, I guess). But I hold out hope that this is just a minor slip – a reminder of what I’m leaving behind rather than an omen of what the next five months could hold.

We have an appointment on Thursday with a midwife, midwifery being a standard practice in this country. From what I understand, they are like professional tour guides of the prenatal and birth-giving journey, accompanying you at every stage to offer support and advice until the big day has come and gone, and even a bit beyond.

They won’t actually deliver the baby, but I’m happy for an experienced obstetrician to do that bit. I know that midwives are licensed to deliver babies in Canada, but qualifications aside, the existence of two very different types of healthcare professionals fulfilling the same role at once seems like an unnecessary and confusing distinction to have to make.

It would be like if homeopaths were suddenly in the business of doing brain surgery. I’ll take the guy (or gal) who went to school specifically to tinker in that area, thanks. I’m sure there’s something inherently prejudiced about this, but I’ll take ignorance and an epidural over that uncertainty any day.

Actually, I’ve decided that until someone can adequately describe what the pain of birth-giving is actually like (my mother said unhelpfully: It’s like someone kicking a football at you. Down there.), I’m going to hold off on the scary, spine-piercing pain management drugs on offer thankyouverymuch.

But if any of you out there know and could help me out with the analogy, I'd be truly grateful. Comments are now open. (Just kidding, they're always open.)

x365: 23 of 365 - Lindsay

Baby-doll dresses, combat boots, tremulous voice, grabbing my hand – you were thrilling, frightening even. That you attended Sunday church with your parents and had grey pile carpet in your bedroom was perplexing.

The baking queen

I have been feeling fine – by which I mean no sickness – since I woke up yesterday. I am as wary of this feeling as one who has been held against her will for two months and suddenly, for no discernable reason, finds the prison door ajar.

We tested out this theory by doing things the sickness normally disallows, such as burgers at lunch, a stroll through Muswell Hill’s commercial sector that included stopping in at every charity shop we came across, a film (more on that in a moment) and a brisk walk. Any one of these activities would have seen me bedridden for the rest of the day, but upon arriving home later that afternoon, the feeling of fineness continued, and it did not dissipate.

This morning, I am still feeling fine. Bruce is helping our friend move flats, and I plan to do a bit of grocery shopping (something I haven’t done alone or with Bruce in weeks), try my hand at making these cookies and perhaps take on some light cleaning. The sky’s the limit when you’re feeling well, but this is as high as I’d like to go at the minute. I just want to be very sure the nightmare is actually over before I plunge back into life.

Speaking of plunging, I managed to convince Bruce to take me to see Mamma Mia!, which the trailer made out to be a light-hearted drama infused with Mediterranean glitz and the occasional song and dance. It was much worse than this, though, and after sitting through three or four humiliating scenes of Meryl Streep over-emoting and flinging herself artlessly along the Grecian coast, we wordlessly grabbed our things and left.

I think the worst part about the whole thing was the attempt to fit the storyline to the existing Abba songs, which often involved the characters highlighting pertinent bits of lyrics with a hysterical shriek or bellow as though to say “See? THIS is why the song works in this particular context!” like we couldn’t have worked it out for ourselves.

The Guardian wasn’t overly taken with it either, but I don’t need a review to tell me when something is shit. I like to see for myself, which is why we are still planning to watch The Happening at some point. We did not learn our lesson after Lady in the Water, and probably never will, though this type of innocence is worth preserving in my opinion. Maybe not £20, but, you know.

If you want to see a really good film this weekend, I recommend The Visitor, which we saw at the Phoenix - one of the oldest film theatres in the UK. It inspired us to watch The Station Agent (2003) as well, which was another lovely film.

Friday films, underexposed

Apparently the New York Times is ahead of its own readership, which for the most part does not see the validity of personal blogging, or the relevance of an article on the subject.

Here, Emily Gould (personal-blogger-turned-columnist) writes about over-sharing and exposure in an age where – in these parts at least - the private and the public have become disquietingly inextricable.

It’s an informative and well-written piece, but I was more intrigued by the reaction it elicited from readers. There was a general sense of outrage that the NYT would publish the self-absorbed ranting of a young girl who seemingly exploited everyone in her life, including herself, in order to gain recognition.

Which, fair enough – if you don’t blog, there’s little reason to care about the misfortunes that can befall those of us who do (well, those of us with more than a few dozen readers anyway).

But strangely, this moral outrage was predicated on the fact that, because there are more important matters at hand, such as war, famine and elections, Emily’s efforts would be better spent fighting in Iraq or maybe chopping firewood for her elderly neighbour. As though good deeds and navel gazing could and should not exist in the same universe (or newspaper).

Ironically, it's the Baby Boomers that took issue with her perceived self-absorption, and expressed the most vitriol of anyone else commenting.

Anyway, have a read and see what you think.

In a galaxy far, far away

Remember when McSweeney's was a quality site filled with good, funny writing?

Mr Bouncy Bounce

A colleague’s sister is due around the end of December, and she thinks her morning sickness finally finished last Tuesday. Doing a quick calculation in my head (which skews simple maths equations, but) I should be well on my way to feeling like myself again. It’s stories like this that keep me going from week to week, though I know my optimism can only hold out for so long.

In the meantime, I’m having difficulty sleeping, I’m not interested in much except for Big Brother UK and Walkers salt & vinegar crisps, and there is a temporary designer sat beside me who likes to bounce in his chair and stare at my chest.

Okay, I don’t know what precisely he’s staring at, but it’s somewhere in the vicinity of my self, and there is nothing in front of (or beyond) that self, so it’s a safe assumption that:

Bouncing + staring at women = pervert

That’s one equation I’m fairly confident I’ve worked out properly, at least in this instance. He’s gone in a day or two, but given that every day can feel like a month when you’re not sure if you’re going to be able to keep down breakfast (or lunch, or dinner), that feels like ages.

I promise I didn’t come here to complain though! What I really wanted to say was…

Nothing, I did just come here to complain. Soz.

Engulfed in flames

I’ve been reading the new David Sedaris book of essays and am sorry to say that I haven’t been enjoying it much at all. There is something vaguely lacklustre about the whole thing, which isn’t what I’ve come to expect from a guy who can write eloquently about his brother’s shit-eating dog or his father’s strange relationship with rotting produce.

Until now, I hadn’t been able to pinpoint the nature of what it is I’ve taken issue with. But I think it has to do with the fact that, for whatever reason, Sedaris has chosen to forego his literary flair in favour of pared-down character sketches, which he confusingly renders in wooden prose.

The reason I typically enjoy his essays isn’t because I believe Sedaris has lead a more interesting life than the average person, or because I want to discover about various human eccentricities. I mean: these things help if you’re going to weave a good yarn out of personal experience, certainly.

But the facts are not in themselves enough to make a reader believe in the story: it’s how a writer selectively isolates certain aspects of experience, repurposing them in a way that reaffirms what we know about him/her, or even challenging our very notions of that authority, and revealing yet another facet of a protagonist we've come to love and trust (or despise and revile, as is sometimes the case).

Nobody wants a regurgitation of the facts, because facts exist all around us, and to a nauseating degree. What we crave is for someone to animate these – a storyteller who can revive the dried up old clay of trivia in order to illustrate their worldview, thereby putting us back in touch with our own sleepy subjectives.

It seems like Sedaris either forgot how to be himself, or is simply too afraid of offending the people he writes about, opting instead for the safe bet of telling it like he thinks we think it is; perhaps even adding another layer of varnish to the hardened abortions of memory before tossing them back into the kiln.

That sounds a bit harsh, actually. But I just wanted to love this book and am so disappointed.

Another bun in the oven

Last week Erqsome posted a recipe for cinnamon rolls, and though I often drool over her various homely successes (be they of the baking, cooking or knitting variety), this is the one and only time I felt I could not pass up the opportunity to try one out for myself. It was either that or beg her to Fed Ex me a batch, which seemed a bit drastic.

Not nearly as drastic was the impetus to spend almost £80 on baking tools and ingredients heretofore unfamiliar with our kitchen, but I reasoned that if they turned out, I could be persuaded to make stuff from scratch more often.

By late Sunday evening, I was in a bind. I did not feel like embarking on a solo baking adventure that (as Bruce predicted earlier) would likely end in tears – bitter tears of disappointment at having allowed myself to think for one solitary moment that I wouldn’t cock it up.

Because following a recipe from beginning to end, from mixing bowl to oven – especially one that involves kneading and proofing – goes against my very nature. It’s why the bakery section in grocery stores was invented: to save people like myself from feeling like failures every time we fancy a bit of lard and allspice.

But actually, once I got the scary bit over and done with (i.e. the dough), the rest was relatively simple. And by 23.00 hrs, I opened my oven and was greeted by the luscious, heady smell of cinnamon rolls:







Elegant they are not, but tasty? Oh yes.

I won’t tell you how I blundered my way through the recipe, as Erqsome has written some perfectly good directives. But I do encourage anyone who is a bit oven-shy to try and make something they’ve never made before, as I’m convinced I haven’t been this proud of myself since I graduated university six years ago.

And Bruce is officially too full up to eat his words.

Fuck

I’ve been shooting my mouth off all weekend about how I’m going to bake cinnamon buns. And now I actually have to do it.

No pictures, please

I got an email from a fellow pregnant colleague who was quite enthusiastic about first scans. She’d only just had hers, and the experience was tear-inspiring for both her and her partner. I’m not really the tearing sort (I reserve that for anger and anxiety), so I wasn’t exactly expecting a punch-in-the-gut reaction to seeing my little alien on the small screen.

And a good thing too, because the nurses who herded us through that process were some of the most downtrodden, unenthusiastic and unintelligible people I have ever had the displeasure of being manhandled by. A less ironic pair of first-time parents-to-be could have been very disappointed, especially if they were under any illusions about healthcare in the UK.

The NHS system might offer people free healthcare, but if caring is what you’re after, well, that’s going to cost you.

Minutes after I arrived, in a dingy backroom at the Victorian hospital, the ultrasound gel unceremoniously plopped onto my stomach by the impassive Ms Muffin, Bruce and I were gruffly confronted with the first sighting of what will one day (biology willing) be our child.

Amidst the noncommittal grunts of our reluctant technician, we chattered quietly in awe and disbelief that right here, in the hidden cave of my being, lies something that looks very much like a tiny person. Not even the barely suppressed irritation of Ms Muffin could rob us of that very strange and intimate moment.

Afterwards, we were pinged between various departments in the antenatal unit until someone could riddle us what the hell we were supposed to do next. There was a new appointment to be made, a mystery appointment to make sense of, and the ever looming question of how one secures a midwife – none of which had easy answers. Not until we visited the midwives office - a bustling, cheerful hive of activity and – dare I say – caring.

Somewhere along the way, we lost our free first scan (next time you pay two pounds, and you need to bring change, muttered Ms Muffin on repeat – the closest she’d ever come to enthusiasm) but I don’t care: we saw it waving about, alive and well, and that image is indelibly burned into my mind now. Next time we’ll bring our two pounds and cross our fingers that Ms Muffin is on blood-letting duties.

So-called life

As much as I can, I have a schedule. I work hard, hard, hard throughout the week – staving off nausea in the day (and sometimes anxiety over a potential social engagement that will stretch this out unbearably) before enduring the aimless throng of tourists, the stifling, stinking tube journey home, where fatigue quickly and decisively encroaches on a necessarily short evening.

Weekends, I am utterly selfish, my needs few but specific: to lie prone for as many hours as one can deem reasonable, escaping into some work of fiction or other, most often set in contemporary London, which is more easily learned about through literature than actually being in it, I find (though the same could be said of all experience, if I'm honest).

There is no point at which I’m completely immersed in anything anymore - work or repose - as in any case I am unable to escape the heightened maintenance my metabolism now requires of me: scoffing some meal that isn’t completely off-putting, followed by constant bottles of water, followed by a snack, followed by water, followed by another snack, followed by more water, followed by another meal . . . &ct.

We are over the three month mark now, and I am looking forward to that impending period of reprieve, when this obsessive vigil over my complex physiology can cease and I will apparently begin to feel more like my ‘normal self’ again.

We’re having our first scan on Tuesday afternoon, all three of us: me, Bruce and this symptom I keep trying to humanise whenever I get a spare minute. We are like everyone else but this is like nothing I have ever experienced. It's a paradox for sure.

Not so hot

That little stunt I pulled the other day (you know, where I walked briskly) cost me forty-eight hours of nausea.

On one of those days, Yuan - friendly neighbourhood sage of unsolicited advice/opinions - decided to tell me that she’s noticed my body has changed.

Let me preface this by saying that Yuan’s personal motto seems to translate thusly: “If you can’t join ‘em, beat ‘em down with smug observations that will make them wish they hadn’t joined either.”

Oddly covetous of my conventional life, she’s taken to pushing my buttons: few but obvious to her.

Your tits are huge!

Was her first exclamation of the lunch hour, which I handled with as much decorum as someone who is trying not to barf up a sandwich can muster. I hate big tits! Doesn’t everyone? And then the final nail in that coffin:

Yes, I notice your body is changing. Your female parts are more…protruding.

So less pin-up girl (which seemed a fitting analogy last week) than Hottentot Venus, now indelibly burned into that part of the imagination that informs self-image, thanks very much Yuan. It doesn’t matter that I haven’t gained a single pound since I discovered I was pregnant – the poison has already been unleashed and is busily coursing through my veins, even now.

Having humoured some questionable ‘friends’ in my time, I believe that I’m well-tuned to the subtle differences between insensitive and malicious, and I’ve come to the conclusion that with Yuan, it’s an unhealthy mixture of the two.

The days of allowing petty individuals to feed me barbs wrapped in the soft-flour tortilla of ‘innocent observation’ are well behind me, though, and I think I’m putting ‘stop payment’ on our weekly lunch dates. At least until I’ve got this body-image/pregnancy thing under control.

Except now I’m wondering if a developing baby can subsist on breath mints and sparkling water. . .

A different tack

Tonight we are going to see My Bloody Valentine perform live in Camden. My ex-inner-Goth of 1995 is currently doing cartwheels (in her grave - depressing cartwheels of death).

I actually cannot wait, even though I feel as though I’ve swallowed month-old baloney and gasoline.

This morning, though, I woke to several strong assertions made by that formerly dormant drill sergeant that is my Ego, namely:

1. You are not dying, so stop acting like it!
2. Nothing worth having comes easy, so:

• Stop eating junk
• Walk like you mean it
• Instead of going easy on yourself, go hard

Because ultimately

• Even if you crash and burn, eventually your body will catch up with your new attitude, and that can only make things better.

You can’t argue with good sense, so today I packed orange slices, cherries, bananas and low-fat cheese sandwiches, and virtually ran the 20 minutes it takes to reach the Metro by foot.

I got off at Waterloo as usual, charging up the South Bank with such purpose that I managed to forget for 40 whole seconds that I’m nearly 3 months pregnant.

And you know - I don’t feel any worse than I typically do these days, so that’s something! And we’ve decided to scrap getting to the show on time for the opening act, which means that I can still come home after work and nap before heading out for a late(er than usual) evening.

Take that, morning sickness!

Best cures for 'morning' sickness

1. Don't get pregnant

2. . . .

3.

4.

5. Please put me out of my misery

6.

Fleet Foxes

Last week we saw Elbow perform at the Royal Festival Hall, as part of Massive Attack's Meltdown music festival. The opening act was Fleet Foxes, whom we'd researched a bit first on MySpace, the way you do. They were brilliant too.

The 'N' key on my laptop just fell out. Nanoo nanoo.

Discover Fleet Foxes

It's my birthday I can skyve if I want to

Actually, I can't - I've gotta go to work. I'm praying my former line manager didn't leak the day, as pawning off cake to sheepish colleagues who didn't know my name up until now isn't exactly how I'd like to spend four o'clock. Know what I mean?

Over the weekend, Bruce bought me a lovely handbag and dress from my favourite little boutique, Orla Kiely, but he still presented me with a voucher for maternity wear this morning so I'd have something to open. Best husband ever?

My dear friend kimchi Head (who always seems to find the perfect card) has also promised to try and visit in January, right around the time I'll be needing an extra set of hands. Even if I shut my eyes now and woke up tomorrow, this would still count as one of my favourite birthdays.

20 reasons this blog will not make me famous

Or 20 ways to sell your soul to the blogosphere, if you're into that kind of thing.

Personally, I think getting onto a season of Big Brother UK would yield quicker results.

Finally, a perk

From the mouths of babes

Fits in your handbag

I realise that comparing foetuses to inanimate objects is meant to drive home just how big/small they are, but I’d rather not visualise a tube of lipstick with fingernails that swallows and moves about on its own in my uterus (consequently as big AS A GRAPEFRUIT, goodbye weekend breakfast). No thank you, helpful pregnancy newsletter - you can take that analogy right back to your editorial team and tell them where they can shove their tube of peach-fuzz-covered lipstick (in their uterus, apparently).

So at ten weeks, I think I’ve possibly processed the significance of what’s taking place. Gone are the hazy, intermittent conjectures of the first few weeks, and even the queasy foreboding of the last few. Someone at work finally jolted me from my protective shell of misery, simply by asking: Is this your first?

I had to roll that statement around in my fist a little, to appreciate its weight (the approximate heft of an apple). My first pregnancy, my first antenatal experience, my first foray into that brave new world where things stop being about Me or about Him or about Us for as long as it will take to integrate this new...

And that’s where I get stuck. New what? Attachment? Accoutrement? Thing That Will Be More Significant Than A Pet But Is Not Yet Anything? Cosmetic by Estee Ovaries?

I just don’t know.

But last night, I dreamt that a supermarket clerk was scanning my belly with that thing that scans bar codes? And I could see the little gaffer, and felt both elation (a baby!) and fear (a checkout?!).

So my subconscious seems to be topping me up where I fall short of complete awareness on this particular subject. I wish my analogies would hurry up and get here though.

Getting pregnant and giving birth are the two things that have always wigged me out. It’s why I had to turn off my mind in the same way I do when I book a plane ticket on an overseas flight. Once you commit, there’s no going back. It’s something we’ve both wanted since we met and fell in love, and no amount of fear is going to get in our way.

Life after birth

It is going to be very difficult to enjoy the next phase of my life with all of this out-of-body, I Am an Observer of My Own Existence, floating-on-the-ceiling rubbish I go through on a daily basis.

Nearly two years ago (jesus), I was certain that my soul would be forcibly torn from my body the moment I landed in London. Until that point, my experiences were so much a part of my environment that I wasn’t sure the ensuing ‘me’ would be able to survive a transplant of that magnitude.

And in a way, I wasn’t wrong – the juxtaposition of self and other, inside and outside, is never more apparent than when you’re orbiting the unknown. It's like being turned rightside-out again, for the very first time. My new challenge is to finally resist the urge to objectify that all-too-visible self and simply try and be.

Having not enough time to reflect on anything plays a big part in this disconnect, I’m sure. Today is the first time in a long while that I’ve managed to push the crowding dishware off the tabletop and just press my face against its surface.

There’s little more than a hum and a cold, calm sensation. I don’t know what you’d divine with an empty table, but it seems like a good place to start.

The time of my life

Yesterday, morning sickness reached new and sickening heights. Spontaneous vomiting of the ‘just barely made it’ variety and the near impossibility of keeping anything down was the order of the day. I even managed to vomit in one of London’s finest canteens – Canteen – shortly before my dinner of poached eggs on toast came (I know, right?).

It only happened about three or four times, but I still got that wobbly-kneed, shaky, gotta-sit-down feeling after every incident. By the time I got home, I was so exhausted that I fell into a deep sleep. It lasted about five minutes, and then I was up for half the night.

Hence I am once again stressing about work from home. I am working too, but mainly stressing about the things I could better do if I was actually sat at my desk with my notebook and my laptop and many system folders.

Monday morning seemed like a good time to break the news, so whenever someone asked me ‘How are you feeling?’ or ‘How was your weekend?’ or ‘Can I borrow your stapler?’ I’d just blurt out ‘Yeah, I’m pregnant!’ and then spend the next several minutes describing my symptoms until they backed away slowly. Everyone seemed genuinely pleased at first.

The Heads are no longer treating me like a star in the making, which is just fine with me. In that operation, if someone notices you above the radar, they take aim and shoot until you either climb higher than you’d ever planned to climb or tail spin into the ground. Trust me: I’ve been to enough corporate pep talks to know that this is true.

I’m also banking on the fact that they probably can’t fire me now I’m up the duff. Not because I plan to work less than I typically do, but because I need this excuse to go easy on myself for once. It’s important – for the baby, obviously, but also in general. I don’t want to look like a shriveled walnut before I hit 40.

Speaking of hitting a number to do with age, it’s my biiirthday on the 19th of June. I don’t understand people who don’t like birthdays. Attention, presents, dinner and special events in my honour? Yes please! I’d have a birthday every day if it were legal. I don’t think it’s illegal, mind you. Could we afford that actually?

And it will be my last birthday sans child, if everything goes according to plan, so I’m going to rip it up the way a childless woman does and go and see a live West End production of Dirty Dancing!

It might not be your cup of tea, but I saw this film when I turned eleven, and rented it on my father’s video card no less than 33 times. It was the first (and by no means last) time a film had caught my imagination with regards to love and sex, and I was hooked for life - oddly grinding greasers aside.

It was Bruce’s idea, which goes to show how much the man must care about me (I mean, I’m pretty sure he’s coming with). If I can keep the morning sickness at bay, it might just qualify as the second best birthday I’ve ever had.

And that might qualify as the second lamest thing I’ve ever said. Even the first.

On being alone

They warned me that sleep would be one of the first things to go, but I wish I could have overcome the illness first – apparently being overtired only exacerbates the nausea. Okay, no ‘apparently’ about it.

I’ve been bedridden since Tuesday - among books, comics, unwashed clothes and empty cereal boxes - and whereas most others would at least be contemplating the full bottle of Ibuprofen in the next room, I've found something almost cathartic about the whole experience.

Honestly, it takes me right back to childhood. Not that I spent all that time alone by choice – I was very social, though circumstance often dictated five hours of television or two stacks of young adult novels, take your pick. Sometimes I would play my favourite songs on repeat and sing along, imagining that if someone could only see me, I’d be made famous on the spot. And with fame would come beauty, and with beauty, popularity.

It’s not complete bullshit, that theory. As soon as I dropped my ‘baby fat’ (some very tenacious young fat, that ‘baby fat’), I had loads of friends, including the boys that once made galumphing dinosaur noises behind me while I walked. Maybe not those specific boys, but I was always grateful that their attention was finally positive.

Anyway, things moved very quickly after that. I graduated high school, went to university and put all my effort into honing the parts of me I knew others would find attractive - body and mind. I didn’t have a minute to myself, and I didn’t think much about that.

Then my not-so-brief stint with mental illness came and went, and I spent a great deal of time alone. I didn’t know how to be alone anymore, but I was at a loss with others too, and somehow it felt harder to be reminded of that. So I bided my time (three years, four) until the awkwardness mostly passed, and then I was right back into things.

Having spent the last year and a half in a loving relationship, living and working in a challenging environment, I find it hard to believe that my priority was once drinking beer in a pub with people I didn’t even like, and who didn’t like me. I guess the path of least resistance runs mainly downhill, into that murky last call for hopes and dreams. And I had nothing to climb back out for, not for a long time.

It’ll be my thirty-second birthday on the nineteenth of this month – not a bad time to take ownership of how my life has developed so far. I can’t connect the dots between my childhood and the present tense; couldn’t say for sure there’d even be a constellation. There are some glaring similarities, though, between the uncomfortable adolescent I was then and the woman I’ve become, and what amazes me most is that I don’t feel the need to resolve this.

Being alone is not my forte, it never was. But the time I’ve spent alone here, anxious about my body and the future, is probably the most honest thing I’ve ever embarked on. Whatever that is.

Deadbeat mum-to-be

Rather than work from home today, I took the day off sick. It may not look this way because I am lying prone and often engrossed in reading or laughing at episodes of *Pot Psychology or choking down a piece of fruit, but the effort of tending to one’s constant nausea really takes its toll after a few weeks.

I don’t know how I’ll ever find my way out of this (very normal, millions upon billions do it!) prenatal nightmare, but I am taking it one day, one nap, one bag of Doritos, one episode of Dawson’s Creek at a time.

SHOOSH, there is something vaguely soothing about cheesy, overworked dialogue set to wailing C-list vocalists and don’t tell me there isn’t (or I might start crying, that’s just the kind of week I’m having).

Bruce - who has been dragging me out into the sunshine in case I forget what it looks like - insisted I accompany him to the shop this morning, so I bought a punnet of cherries, four large navel oranges and two dozen chocolate chip cookies, among other sundry items I thought I could probably manage. Cherries and oranges win the award for most palatable – the cookies tasted like pain.

And then I checked out for a few hours, buried inside a sleep so deep I didn’t even care that my mouth was hung open in the way of sleeping mouths belonging to those who accidentally eat spiders in their sleep – I would have eaten three or four spiders to prolong that sleep for another six hours, and you have not seen how I behave when I am suddenly made aware of a spider in the vicinity of my person. It was just that good.

Throughout, I've been missing my friends back home something awful but have received some very nice emails and notes and things, which is almost the same as having them here with me. Uh.


*I’ve seen reference to this on more than a few occasions and I finally had to **take a look; let’s just say that it balances out my penchant for soggy teen dramas

**WAIT, NOT AT WORK! OR WITH YOUR CHILDREN!

Also

Trying to swipe a bag of Doritos off a very high shelf using a packet of Strawberry Laces = Not my finest hour

Eggs of terror

This moment of relative sanity is brought to you by Suede, low lighting and fluffy pillows.

Aw yeah, Internizzles, I’m working from home today.

I’m not sure if it’s the malnutrition or the cabin fever or the hormones (yes! yes! yes!) but I am irritable as all get out and the NHS is not doing a thing to help.

I’ve been trying to book my eleven-week scan for the past three hours, on and off, and each time I ring them, a recorded voice goes:

I’m sorry, but this line is busy (weighted pause)

If you would like to request a call-back, please dial 5

So I do, and then:

I’m sorry: that service is unavailable for this type of call

What - the type of call a pregnant woman must make between the hours of 9 and 5 when she’d normally be at work, where presumably nobody knows about her condition because she’s not yet three months in the clear? GET. OUT.

And then, THEN, the Marks & Spencer website gave me a full, 55-page report on food allergies, when all I need to know is: CAN I EAT YOUR EFFING BELGIAN CHOCOLATE CHEESECAKE IF I AM PREGNANT OR NOT?

Because it says something about two pasteurised egg yolks on the packaging and nothing about raw or baked. And by the time I was halfway through their List of Gazillion Products That Include Soy, I was nearly finished eating the damn thing. Let it never be said that I am unfamiliar with risk assessment!

Last night, I somehow managed to eat my way through (and keep down) an entire pan of cannelloni, in spite of the fact that it didn’t taste or feel very nice. But it was my first hot food in over a week, my first bit of animal protein, and god be damned if I wasn’t going to enjoy every bland, middling, fat-laden mouthful.

This - coupled with the fact that Bruce had cleaned the entire flat on his own with no prodding from me - was enough to persuade me to live my life a bit. So I watched an hour of the excellent BBC series Age of Terror before hitting the hay.

At this rate, my kid is going to emerge one nervous ball of eating-disordered anxiety, and it will be my fault. Though with half its father’s genes, it will know how to wash a dish.

It takes courage to enjoy it

At the moment, I am subsisting on a diet of Bjork, sugary cereals and popsicles, which they call ‘ice lollies’ in this country (aw...puke).

It occurred to me as well that waiting for something different to take place before posting again would result in not many posts between now and July. If fighting to see anything beyond the veil of sick is my only option, so be it.

In the spirit of all that, I’ve come up with a *3-Step Plan for those of you who are either i. in the early stages of pregnancy or ii. wanting to lose weight in a fashion that would scare your mother

Step 1 – Diet

If it is bland and/or nutritionally unsound, you should eat it. Examples:

Honey Nut Cheerios
Wheat bites
Toast
Toasted bagels
Cream cheese
Mild cheddar
Doritos

Actually, that’s about it. For flavour, why not try something full of sugar? Such as:

Popsicles (ice lollies)
Strawberry laces (or a single lace, if you can’t manage it in the plural)
Toffee popcorn
Honey Nut Cheerios

Don’t you feel sick now? Good – off to the toilet with you.

Step 2 – Exercise

Don’t do it! Get back into bed, young lady.

Step 3 – Sleep

Get an early night – and why not? There’s nothing to enjoy in the waking world anyway, least of all food. Don’t worry, you’ll wake up feeling sick in approximately four hours anyway, when you can do all your best thinking!

Happy living, hip and healthy friends of the internet!


*For those of you under age 18 and/or lacking in irony, I’m not actually suggesting you do this.

Great(ish) expectations

I’d do almost anything to be invisible right now. Having a banana by one’s keyboard is not a safeguard against conversation during the lunch hour – I would have to keep my face permanently stuffed if I wanted some time to myself (this isn’t a guarantee either, as invariably someone will say, ‘Sorry to interrupt you while you’re having your lunch,’ and then proceed to do so anyway).

The face-stuffing isn’t going terribly well these days, namely because I can’t conceive of eating anything that isn’t toast or cereal or (curiously) Doritos. Can you guess why?

Oh come on, you can. I’m up the duff, good friends of the internet!

We enthusiastically embarked upon this new adventure a few months back and were delighted with the news, interpreted with our little chemistry set over four weeks ago.

Then the fatigue kicked in. And then the morning sickness. The morning sickness is enjoying itself so much, in fact, that it’s decided to make a whole day of it. I spend most of my time feeling as though I’m fighting a vicious hangover, if you want to know the truth.

And food! My beloved chicken and steak dinners, pizza and pasta, fruits and vegetables, coffee and more coffee – all poison, if you asked my nose, stomach or imagination.

So I fight nausea all day long at my desk - eating what I can, whenever I can manage it - crawl into bed at six and fight nausea for the rest of the evening. It is a challenging way to conduct a marriage, let me tell you!

And I don’t really know where I'm at, beyond this. I like to try and stay one step ahead in life, but I fear I’m at the mercy of my physiology for the time being. I will probably be very excited, though, once the nausea wears off and the happy-making hormones kick in.

Until then, please stick around to witness me blunder through this new phase of our lives with none of the charm, wit and humour you’d expect to find on most websites about motherhood.

Some people are born to be mums, but I’ve a feeling I’ll be faking it all the way.

On second thought

Did I say nothing? I could never say no to a meme, or Emmms for that matter.

The rules: Each player answers the questions about themselves. At the end of the post, the player then tags 5-6 people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know they’ve been tagged and asking them to read your blog. Let the person who tagged you know when you’ve posted your answer.

1. What was I doing 10 years ago? Gosh, I’ll be 32 next month! Okay, ten years ago. I’d have been in third year university, feeling awfully inferior about English literature – a feeling that was adequately balanced by my growing arrogance over Film Studies. I was drinking too much, throwing a lot of impromptu gatherings for diverse friends, toying with the (perverse) affections of a much older man and living unhappily ever after with my then-boyfriend in a one-bedroom apartment downtown. Or a rented house, I can't recall which now.

2. What are 5 things on my to-do list for today (not in any particular order):
i. Write an email to work, telling them that I might not be coming in tomorrow

ii. Prepare a list of questions for my new GP

iii. Eat something, anything

iv. Spend some quality time with my good friend, who is visiting from Canada

v. Call my husband, who’s in Edinburgh for work

3) Snacks I enjoy:
Past tense, at the moment, but: green olives, dried mango, corn chips and salsa, strawberry laces, Fruit Pastilles, baked crisps (salt and vinegar), cookie dough ice cream, gourmet jelly beans, Twigglets…I’m beginning to see why the scale seldom tips in my favour.

4) Things I would do if I were a billionaire: Quit my job, so that I could fill out surveys full time. And I’ve always wanted to take up swimming!

5) Places you have lived: A small city in the middle of nowhere/Canada, a small town in the middle of nowhere/British Columbia, and London.

6) Peeps I want to know more about:
Mrs Slocombe, the Lass, this gal, thebeesknees, dominguez and Politiko. Aw, heck. You're all invited.

I’m in a nothing state of mind

And consequently have nothing much to tell you. Is that okay? I can’t remember the last time I felt compelled to reveal any part of my life to a one-dimensional surface.

Except for that one time, when I prayed to a train window to please please please let me not throw up on this train.

So even though I’ve lost the plot with journaling, I’ve picked it up elsewhere in life, which is infinitely more important to me right now.

Our first year wedding anniversary is this Sunday. I think that means paper, which is fragile, but not nearly as fragile as binary code.

Some of my best friends are musicians

You know that whole adage about ‘If you don’t have anything nice to say, keep your blooming gob shut, &ct’? Yes, well, I’m still here, trying to think of something nice to say.

But honestly, I get around the internet these days and all I can picture is an infinity of monkeys on an infinity of typewriters, except that instead of one of them producing Shakespeare, virtually all of them are patting themselves on the back for escaping the circus, and for being able to tell the difference between a typewriter and a banana in the first place.

But if a monkey types in a forest and nobody is around to read what it’s written, has the monkey actually written anything? And! Is there even a monkey?

You know? So it’s a dilemma.

Then I was watching a BBC programme about these young kids who are passionate about their oboes or whatever, and it finally dawned on me that even though they will have to calibrate their personalities until they’ve attained the right mixture of awkwardness to parts arrogance, they don’t need someone to witness them alone in their concrete rooms playing the same bridge over and over and over again until they get it right. And do you know why?

(Here’s where the ‘nice’ comes in, I promise.)

Because they are only practicing. It’s what they are practicing for that sets them apart from everyone else on earth who owns an instrument that is gathering dust in a prominent corner of their living room.

One pod person music teacher pointed out that it’s a tough job finding talent, dedication and intelligence in the same place. What he didn’t elaborate on - since musicians sometimes have trouble seeing beyond the glare of their own genius - is that you can apply this formula to any success known to monkeys man humankind – it just makes sense.

So here I am - horribly out of practice and yet determined not to run for the safety of my television set until I’ve spent some quality time with my word processor. It’s not a concrete room, as you can plainly see – not yet. But just wait until I close the door.

It’s going to happen one of these days. I’m telling you. Monkey to monkey.

Enthusiastic film reviews, for the time constrained

In Bruges
Excellent!

Son of Rambo(w)
Crap!

Forgetting Sarah Marshall
Brand! Bad!

Happy-Go-Lucky
I want those hours back, Mr Leigh!

Battle Royal
Chilling!

The Nines
Weird!

Anna M
Uh…!

The Orphanage
Terrifying! I might even see it!

The Other Boleyn Girl
Heavy handed, poorly scripted!

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly
Sexy, cool and sad! And kind of self-important!

Be Kind Rewind
No star for you!

One for the bin

What a . . . um . . . trying time, to accomplish anything, aside from work and dinner and sleep. And I’m beginning to wonder if people here don’t pack overnight bags, because. Well, just look at them all. They are here when I leave, here when I get in, at their desks over lunch, like me, except working.

Because my creative brain has become flaccid like a, erm, pencil that has gone flaccid – yeah, like one of those rubbery pencils you get in a magician’s kit or maybe as a joke, where you shake it all around and it goes wobble wobble wobble. But doesn’t write particularly well?

Yes, so because of that, my thoughts often work from the outside in now, i.e. environment; me versus my environment; environment vis a vis the future; spiralling down towards tedious introspection, &ct. All of this takes longer than what I've got, currrently. When really, all I want to do is say something that isn’t about me.

I could have said something about Arnold Schwarzenegger in the starring role of Junior, but I sort of missed the boat on that one. The contest boat, with its skull-and-crossbones sail and broken oars and . . . ah forget it.

By Friday life has killed me

All I’m trying to do is find a song with enough noise to drown out the eating sounds of my ex-line manager and maybe get five minutes to myself without having to build a moat around my desk.

Loads of things seem to be happening all at once, but then I take stock and realise that I’m just letting it all pile up in my head. Some things have already happened and some aren’t set to take place until the future, where we’ll all wear government-issued pollution suits and say things like “Let me put that into the *CPPT generator and see what it says.” I do seem to be solidly booked until 2230, if indeed I make it that far (Aubrey de Grey says I stand a pretty good chance, so.)

Today I was welcomed into the editorial team, which means that I now have access to all the people who will make my job less of a nightmare, and that my workload is about to go from unmanageable to out-of-control. Somehow this doesn’t faze me, likely because of a delayed reaction that will probably kick in once I finally realise that I am married and living in London.

Conscious Friday wrestles subconscious Friday to the ground and clubs her over the head with an empty beer bottle, which she didn’t drink, because she doesn’t drink anymore**

It seems my job has taken the top priority spot without my consent, sitting well below Bruce but somewhere above reality television and voiding my bladder. Would that I were paid enough to turn seemingly innocuous weekend behaviour into an idea for a homepage, or dream that the heads of digital were trying to accompany me to the bathroom, but you can’t put a price tag on work-related neurosis, and I feel like they are setting me up to either succeed beyond my wildest dreams or go up in a blaze of failure.

When all I wanted was a cushy job that would give me plenty of time to surf the internet and stare out the window.

How do these things happen?

*Cryoprotaphototransmutability – it doesn’t exist yet, but feel free to run with the idea, I won’t stop you. Or maybe I already have!

**Barring last night, but I was at a Q&A for a new Mike Leigh film and it seemed appropriate somehow. I’m sure the raving alcoholic they kicked out of the theatre mid-screening can back me up on that one.***

***Bruce knows that I would never talk about myself in the third person like that.

Mistaken identity

If you thought you saw me on the South Bank in my makeshift Metro rain hat, Joanna Newsome ringing in my ears, I assure you it was a complete accident – an unfortunate collision of coincidences beyond my control.

People like me have no use for lunch hours, which I’m using precious time to convey.

People like me are hiding their adolescence-issued uniform beneath so many layers, it almost looks like dedication. You'd almost swear you knew me.

NOT SO CHATTY NOW, ARE WE?

Hmmm? No, we are not.

x365: 22 of 365 - Pants

You were the only one who didn’t pull away from me when I got sick; I’ll always be grateful to you for that. You’re probably still better than me at paraphrasing.

Life-like, animated

The cat is back from her operation. ‘Being fixed’ they call it, because the cat returns minus the fortnightly caterwauling that once signified a frantic, reproductive need – problem solved.

Except that now she crouches tightly, sorely, her neck gingerly extended inside the Elizabethan collar, and what tiny spirit that once encouraged her to venture bravely forth from under the bed to watch birds and eat dry kibble did not wake with her from that chemical sleep.

She has me pegged correctly now; I’m the person that sometimes comes at her with hands that deliver her into the most frightening situations unimaginable. Here kitty kitty with a gentle, calling voice – what a hypocrite.

So I’ve been moving tenderly, uncertainly around the flat like it’s me who’s had the operation, because that’s what I do: I over-empathise with others. I’m particularly bad at it too, because I’m often left to guess at what it is I’ve found empathy with.

The more out-of-touch and unfeeling the object, the harder I’ll try – I’d cradle the cold, inflexible limbs of pointy-toed dolls in my youth, imagining that they felt the chill of night without their clothes, which I would have lost. Imagining my caring could make any difference to their suffering. That all you need is love.

If just one of them had ever returned that concern, I would've screamed my head off.

Somehow I’d overcomplicated leaving the house today, tasking myself with the impossible purchase of a specific bar of soap – soap that I’d used only once in a hotel in Brussels, and which has become practically extinct. Thankfully I caught on to this self-sabotage and forced myself to take a walk to Sainsbury’s, to buy normal soap along with some much-needed items (bread, coffee, toilet paper).

I wouldn’t say I was heartened, but I was surprised as usual to see so many people - people who want nothing more to do with the impassive faces they encounter in grocery stores and on the streets and in their lives than I do. And decaffeinated coffee was one whole pound more than regular.

The service industry in Great Britain is unfriendly and inefficient - even in Muswell Hill. At least the Germans have efficiency. Don’t they?

I can't get no posting action

Ah the sordid French films you can talk someone into watching, if that someone misinterprets the definition of ‘titular.’ Walk, don’t run (you might trip over the oftentimes prone figure of its titular character), to your nearest torrents site for an illegal copy of Anna M. And then decide to do something else with those two hours instead.

I’ve been too scared to take a proper lunch hour for as long as it’s been since I last posted here (I think skinny jeans were still in fashion) but resentment trumps fear today, so here I am, with virtually nothing to report.

Our love for the new flat grows by the day, no surprises there. A friend of ours reported a Noel Fielding sighting at our local Sainsbury’s; another invited us to come round to play Scrabble with a rock star that lives in the neighbourhood. Both of which leave me feeling a bit ‘huh’ but not terribly ‘wow’ if you know what I mean. Do you know what I mean? Good, because I don’t have the time to explain where I’m at with celebrity.

The neighbourhood is full of grand old mansions once bought by individuals who could afford a mortgage but not the furnishings necessary to live in all parts of their home. Our flat occupies a small part of one such home, and though it isn’t very big, it’s no smaller than our last flat, and it’s well furnished. Mostly we sit around slack-jawed and congratulating ourselves on a good find (and pondering a gigantic poster of Peter Greenaway’s Drowning by Numbers, which isn’t the most soothing of imagery to have situated near the bed, I admit).

I was supposed to accompany Bruce on a work trip to Norway this coming weekend, but that fell through, so instead I am taking the opportunity to get some real writing done. I want to finish (start, really) a film paper that only needs to beat out two others in order to win a cash prize, for instance. Obviously I’m reserving the right to not tell you what the contest consists of, or how to enter.

And there are many other things I’d like to do to become better acquainted with my new area. Spaying a cat is not one of them, but I’m pushing that to the top of my list after the ridiculous night of sleep we just had. Great, and because I’ve been working steadily around the fringes of writing this post, my lunch hour is once again gonzo.

Tippy tip tap

I would rather write one amazing post per month than a half-assed entry per day. But I don’t do that either, so.

Let’s see, where were we? Oh right. Last we spoke, I was on the brink of moving into our new flat, whilst becoming increasingly busy at work and trying to keep up with the merriment of some rather energetic out-of-towners, all of which culminated in a nasty flu that took the fun out of transition, leaving in its wake a sticky trail of pure, unadulterated s t r e s s.

My poor, dear love had to pack everything up for us while I coughed and snotted among what was left of our depleting home comforts. By the time I felt even a wee bit better, it was time for the final act of moving: The Feral Cat Corral

That was probably the most stressful bit, as it involved trapping them in a small space and then watching them fly up the bare walls in a desperate attempt to escape us. I suppose they thought we would kill them, I don’t know – I’ve never had anyone come at me with a pair of oven mitts and a towel. I’m sure it’s harrowing, especially when you’re the size of a bread box.

It took quite a few attempts before both cats were in the box, but we managed in the end! And then it was loading, driving across town, unloading and unpacking, which we accomplished in less than two days (unpacking took the most time, obviously).

And now we have the most amazing flat in London! If there’s a better one, you won’t find two happier people occupying it, and that’s a certainty.

You also won’t find a busier editor of on-the-web-line material, which is why this post is short, shabby and over far too soon for my liking.