Tuesday, 29 April 2014
Tuesday, 22 April 2014
Turning 30 was fine, you're barely out of your twenties. Thirty five was a bit wobbly but wasn't that bad, but the closer I hurtle towards 40 the more 'orrible it sounds.
I can't work out why. It can't be because I'm scared of losing my looks - I've never been that enamoured with them in the first place. Frankly, the only way to go is up - one can hope that aging will change one's face or something. Magically give me cheek bones at some point.
It's probably the same as all of my fears - rooted in my terror of death and a life half lived. But that's the human condition really isn't it? I'm a bad one for comparing myself to other people and wondering what I should have, where I should be and what my plans should be.
I get annoyed at young entrepreneur types, the ones who're running companies before they're 22. The ones who make me wonder what in fuck I spent my late teenage years and early twenties doing. Over achievers and young stars make me want to punch em in the face. Industries run '30 under 30' lists, as if as soon as you hit 31 you're obsolete. Even if you do something cool now no one gives a fuck cos you're officially old.
Well, to these people I say that for every wunderkind discovering shit and making money there are a gazillion awesome things that came from people in their late 30s and older. Instead of freaking myself out at the thought that I haven't finished my novel yet and wondering whether I will ever make it how I want it, I thought I'd have a small look around to find out which artists, writers and other generally cool people did stuff at an age that our society would deem them defunct.
He wrote Utopia when he was 38. OK, he may have been lunatic batshit cray cray with a Protestant killing bloodlust but he could argue his point. Right up till he decided not to and got his head cut off.
DANIEL DEFOE wrote Robinson Crusoe when he was 50. Pretty impressive, huh?
VICTOR HUGO was all of 60 when he wrote Les Miserables. I don't even have to think about finishing my book for, like, decades.
cracked out his Messiah when he was 56. Check him out. No one could pull off a crazy wig quite like Handel.
CONFUCIUS himself didn't start teaching until he was in his late 30s.
DA VINCI was 51 before he painted the Mona Lisa and at my age hadn't even started on The Last Supper.
COLUMBUS discovered motherfucking America when he was 41. No way could he have done that in his 20s. Good job they didn't have a '30 under 30' policy for explorers back then.
JANE AUSTEN didn't write Pride & Prejudice until she was the age I will be in 36 minutes. How pleasing is THAT?
PROUST didn't start looking for lost time until he was 39.
I could go on, but I think I have proved that people over 30 are the best and that all ace things happen from the age of 38 onwards.
Hoorah! Who'd be young?
Monday, 21 April 2014
I was thinking yesterday why I get so sad around the holidays. Whether it's Christmas or Easter or anything in between, I get blue and sad and low. Why would this be when it's a time for relaxing and celebrating and all of that jazz?
I was worried because I thought it was because I was evilly jealous of people who have families and plans and things to do and people to celebrate with. I thought it was because I'm usually on my own and it's HARD not to be lonely at these times.
But actually, it's because for the last few years at least, I've worked in bars.
I have a bad taste in my mouth about holiday times because all I see is people getting wasted. The same people come into the bar every single day of the holiday time and get completely wankered. I listen to their conversations and they don't even know what they're saying or who they're talking to. They're just braying shite at each other while greedily sucking down over priced beer like it's actually going to help anything.
Now, I'm not talking about people who go out for a nice meal and have some drinks with friends and family. That's nice to be around. That's nice to serve. That's nice to sort of almost be a part of, even if it's just bringing them stuff. I like that.
I'm talking about the people who see Christmas and Easter as a time to get ratted 24/7 for the entire duration. The kind of people who come in to the bar crowing about their hangovers. The kind of people who laugh about spending hundreds of pounds every evening on fucking booze. The kind of people who drink drive and think it's funny. The kind of people who don't consider six pints as a 'real drink'. These are the kinds of people I've spent the last few holidays and bank holidays with.
I'm kind of glad that I've worked it out. I don't want to be the bitter, lonely girl. I don't mind being the lonely girl. That's just how it is. But I don't want to be someone who resents other people for having what I don't have, or for enjoying what I can't enjoy.
I've realised that I see a tiny fraction of people at these times of the year. Just because it's all I see doesn't mean it's all there is. It's extremely likely that this isn't exactly how everyone spends their time during the holidays. The nice ones are with family and friends enjoying good food and nice booze and conversation and connecting with each other. They're not dribbling red wine down their shirt while talking about how their girlfriends aren't trained well enough to give them enough time to themselves (real life conversation overheard last night).
I feel somewhat relieved at this epiphany as I was afraid I was becoming so lonely that I hate everything. But I don't. I just hate alcoholics.
I can live with that.
Saturday, 19 April 2014
Me and Sushi went for a walk. I've found a new route and it's the most glorious bluebell, bird, butterfly and beauty filled 45 minutes ever. You walk down to the bottom of the hill and then you actually start following those random signs that are posted in the countryside. I've always ignored them in the past, not quite believing they really go anywhere. It feels weird to randomly wander around the countryside on your own. With a dog in hand, it becomes normal.
So we cross fields and we talk to sheep and we look up up up and the sky is beautiful. Sushi has her nose in the flowers, in the verges and in the grass. I have my nose in the blossom and the bluebells. There's no one talking to me and I don't have mobile phone reception. It is, in short, perfect.
And then I feel it. The twinge that means I have go to the loo. For whatever reason I have a bladder the size of a pea. It has always been thus and it is the bane of my life. I can go to the loo just before I leave the house and five minutes later I'm desperate. It's got to be soon because it's ruining everything. I could turn back home or I could ask at the nearest pub/restaurant/shop but I have a small dog with me who really doesn't do well with being tied up outside places.
Or I could just ignore it. Mind over matter. Mind over... god dammit. I'm just going to wee here. In this field. By this tree. The only living beings who can possibly see me are those dumbass sheep and I'm not that bothered.
This is very against my nature. I don't do weeing in public. I don't like to become one with nature. I like a nice toilet with toilet paper and soap in the dispenser. But suddenly I'm sick of this dictating where I go. I want to continue this delightful jaunt. I don't want to go home. I don't want to deviate from my route. So fuck it.
And so I did a wee by a tree.
Sushi gave me a slightly incredulous glance, it's true. Which is a bit rich coming from a dog who needs me to take five bags EVERY walk. FIVE.
But I peed and the world didn't end. That's the point of this post. Sometimes, if you really need to wee, just pull your pants down and do it. Toddlers and dogs know what I'm talking about.
Friday, 18 April 2014
She's always on the look out for imperfection and, as I'm the kind of gal who very often puts clothes on inside out and has been known to wear the same dress four times in a week, there is plenty to pick on. I'm just not very smart. I never have been and am pretty sure I never will be.
I can be if I make a real effort. Like, I am an adult. I can brush my hair and iron stuff. I just choose not to a lot of the time. Mostly because if I'm going to walk the dog or on my way to the gym I couldn't give a flying fuck. I don't care. As long as all my parts are covered and I'm not flashing anyone then we're good. No one is looking at me anyway. No one notices and, if they do, they will have the same reaction I do when I pass someone I think looks a bit shit. They'll go: "She looks a bit shit" in their head for a nanosecond and then go back to thinking about whatever they were thinking about before.
It is, in short, not fucking important.
I resent it as you can tell.
However, it is only my ma who does this to me so when she's not around I'm usually safe. Unless my top is inside out - then someone else might comment but that's fair enough really. I mean, I do want to be told if I look like a total tool or I have toilet paper stuck to my shoe or something. I'm not that much of a tramp.
But the other day I was in the post office. My mother was nowhere in sight. I didn't pay that much attention to what I'm wearing, it's true, but I was definitely all covered up. Nothing was showing. Nothing was out. I'm minding my own business when this old dear sidles up to me with her arm outstretched and before I can recoil in horror is YANKING my clothes around. Actually touching me without my consent. Pulling my cardigan around as she says: "Just straightening your jumper dear" like it was NORMAL. I was in shock. I would never ever EVER touch a stranger in any way, shape or form. I might tell them if their skirt is hitched up and they're showing their ass (also happened to me - very grateful for that lady I was) but I wouldn't straighten their collar or pull at their skirt.
So shocked I was that I couldn't even frame a response - which should, of course, have been along the lines of: "What in holy fuck do you think you're doing you lunatic?" - other than sort of skipping away like a startled baby elephant and running away as quickly as possible.
Clearly I'm going to have to start paying more attention the straightness of my hemmage in future as I appear to have moved to bizarro world.
If you're a granny or a lady of a certain age, don't give in to these urges. Just restrain yourself because one day you'll get a reaction you're not happy with. You weirdos.
I live in a place called Seaview. Markus really really really really likes Seaview. Look how much.
Eight messages in and I decide to say something, if only to stem his flow.
4 March and he's back.
Guess what? He STILL loves the Bay. Like a LOT. I had been wondering.
He did leave me alone after this but I think that's more because I was banned.
But I have taken his advice and am busy injoying ware I live.
What a guy.
Thursday, 17 April 2014
You know. Approximately.
I miss smoking. I want to smoke. I still want to smoke. Every day there is a moment where I really really want to smoke.
Now is one of those moments.
I can't eat food as I'm on a diet. I can't go running because it's dark outside. I'm trying to keep my mind off things by writing and have hammered out 2000 words of my book. I'm doing what I should do. And all I can think about is that feeling when you suck the smoke into your lungs.
Sometimes fags taste foul, even to someone who has smoked for 23 years. Sometimes they catch your throat and they fill your lungs and you look at it like: "What the FUCK am I doing?"
But sometimes they taste just right. They scratch an internal itch somewhere at the top of your lungs. They calm the jangling of the nerves and they taste good. Really really good.
Smoking is a ritual. A meditative process. A comfort.
I want a bastard cigarette and I want it now.
But I don't suppose I will. Self denial is something that has been a long time coming to my life. My inner teenager is stropping away as we speak. I want, I want, I want.
Shut the fuck up teenage Deb. Just shut up.
Bad TV and too much plastic shit. Cheap decorations and nasty set course meals in pubs. That's Christmas. I can dig it. People like to have a set time to hang out with their family and go through the routines that give them comfort and remind them of a safe time in the past that may or may not have ever existed. But it serves a purpose. You get stuff. You give stuff. You eat stuff. You drink Coca Cola and you thank the baby Jesus for the new Xbox. Fine. Whatevs. I get it.
Easter is just weird.
We're on the cusp of Good Friday. I mean, really. Who was it good for? Wasn't great for Jesi Chrisi was it? Unless he enjoyed the long and painful death. Unless he really really dug having nails hammered through his palms and being whipped and riding donkeys and things. Unless he was deeply into all that shit, it was probably a bad day as far as days went in the life of Jesus. I mean, it was the last one. Well, it was wasn't it?
The major flaw in the Easter story is as obvious as the major flaw in the Christmas story.
Mary blates did the deed with someone other than Joseph, panicked, blamed an 'Angel' and somehow got away with it. And Jesus blates didn't rise from the dead. Because that's fucking ridiculous.
So, it's a basic crock and yet every year we all celebrate. Supermarket adverts convince me that families are sitting around on Easter Sunday stuffing their faces with roast lamb and mildly spiced buns. Because nothing says Zombie Jesus like eating.
Why is always about eating? Historically, of course, it's a feast day after a fast. But that was then, back in the day, when people actually believed in shit. No one actually deprives themselves for Lent these days. They might stuff a bit less lard in their maw or drink slightly less booze but nothing that would need a massive three course dinner to celebrate the end of.
It's all just weird and mental.
Good Friday used to be the day that we ate the eggs when I was kid. We never even bothered painting any real eggs or doing Easter egg hunts or any of that malarkey. We just rammed the chocolate into our faces. And very nice it was too. Easter Egg chocolate does taste different to other chocolate and I most definitely approve. But then, I'd eat a model of my dog's eggs if they were made of chocolate so I'm not sure I'm a decent judge.
I never questioned why I was eating chocolate eggs when I was a child. I heard the Easter story at school. I knew that some people had brutally murdered some guy. Tortured him, really. I heard about the crown of thorns and Jesus being whipped as he dragged his emaciated form to the cross. I read how he was in pain. I read about the blood and the suffering and the agony.
And then I ate a chocolate egg.
I never went to church, I never believed in god. I'm willing to believe that some guy called Jesus existed. Probably lots of them. I went to university with one called Jesus. And one called Hercules. True story. So, that I can believe.
I found it hard to believe that he was killed like that. When I was child, that is. I can completely believe it now. I believe it, and how. People are schmucks. People are horrible. People kill each other in the name of bullshit all the time.
I definitely didn't believe he came back to life. All a bit too neat, that. All a bit too much like a fairy story.
Of course, I never believed in Santa, the Easter Bunny or the Tooth Fairy. I knew it was my parents all along. And I definitely never believed in God.
I just don't get Easter and now I'm freelance, I don't even benefit from the days off. Sort it out Jesus. You're going to have to better than this.
Wednesday, 16 April 2014
Every now and again, not necessarily on a cyclical basis, just every now and again I wake up and there he is again - Churchill's Black Dog is sitting on my chest. Actually, it's usually Fatman literally sitting on my chest. After I've heaved his girth off me I realise that no, it wasn't just the weight of an enormous cat squeezing the life out of my lungs that is making me feel so floopy, it's here again. The black.
Like a canker deep inside my soul. Like a rotten core of my being. It's always bloody there. Even with a few actual good days and a raft of average days, I can feel it lurking. Usually I can keep it at bay and stem the tide of creeping black by eating or smoking or drinking or taking drugs. OH WAIT. I don't get to do any of those things anymore because somewhere along the line I decided that maybe at some point I should have a stab at being an adult. So now I'm a nun like figure with no vices and that means few distractions when it comes to The Black.
Exercise helps. So do vegetables and sunshine. But sometimes I can't even move because of it. It's all I can do to shrug the cat off and heave myself up out of bed. A bed that isn't any comfort anyway, but at the same time it's not somewhere I want to leave. The temptation to smoke and/or find the valium/temazepam and whatever else I have squirreled away, is strong. But I don't. Because that would be stupid.
Everyone has dog days. Everyone gets on with it. Why should I be any different?
I can tell when it's back properly because I'm aware my perception is a little... off. People's faces look weird. Like everyone is hiding an evil under their skin and I can see through the masks. Like that Daphne Du Maurier short story - The Blue Lenses. Which, by the way, you should read because I'm guessing you haven't.
Case in point, I went for a walk in the sunshine. Nothing that Vitamin D can't fix, right? Especially when you have the pleasure of a three legged pooch for company. We walked through a field of sheep. They stared. And they followed me. Every time I turned around they would stop, pretend that they weren't and start conferring with each other. I start walking and they start following. I turn around and they stop. Finally I face them down and they... just... stare back at me. Massive black pools of death for eyes. I think this is what Nietzsche was on about. For a shiny split second I actually think that the SHEEP ARE COMING FOR ME. It's a beautiful blue and gold day, with burnished sunshine and pink fluffy clouds and I all I feel is the underlying menace of the sheep.
That way madness lies.
Anyway. It's over-ish. Today, I'm pretty sure I could handle sheep. Maybe. This too shall pass, right?
Saturday, 12 April 2014
I've just picked a few at random - these are mostly from OK Cupid, some are from Plenty of Fish, before I was banned FOR LIFE and there may be a Tinder. Weirdly, Tinder has been a lot less creepy than the more traditional sites. I think it's because you can only get messaged by someone you have already liked, so there is an element of control.
And as we know, I do love a bit of control.
I'm going to let these speak for themselves in most cases, although I may not be able to stop the snark where necessary. If you feel I'm being overly harsh on any of these guys then we'll just agree to disagree shall we? Yeah? Good.
OK, here goes:
DON'T use textspeak. Unless you are 12 there is no need to write 'lol'. Not just because it's lazy and an abhorrent bastardisation of the English language but also because it makes you sound inane and weird. If you met a girl in a bar, you wouldn't run up to her and laugh in her face before you say anything, would you? Well, would you? Oh, you would. Odd.
Also, never say: "petit lil feet". Or be called Jerry.
DON'T write shit poetry. It's possible I have a poor sense of humour. I know this. It's also possible that in someone else's eyes this would be the most hilariously witty and enticing first message ever. But it just made me simultaneously hate him and want to punch him and yet sort of pity him a tiny bit.
Every now and again the Guardian shares some content on Facebook that isn't about feminism and isn't blatantly crafted to provide click bait and comment fodder for twats. Just every now and again. Especially on Saturdays when they essentially share my favourite features from the Weekender magazine.
If you've never bought the Guardian on a Saturday then you're missing out on some pretty quality shit. Well, there's The Guide. And there's usually some god awful interview with some celebrity. I'm pretty sure they had Katie fucking Price at some point last year. But there are also some gems. Oliver Burkeman's column: This Column Will Change Your Life, is one of them.
Today his column was about the concept of hope and the measured fact that scientists have discovered that people register as happier if they live their lives without 'hope'. That sounds bleak doesn't it? Not to me it doesn't. Makes loads of sense.
Naturally, this immediately struck a chord with me. I am vehemently against phrases that include the words 'positive mental attitude', 'positive thinking', 'stay positive' and all that they imply. Obviously the concept of thinking positively cannot be a bad thing in and of itself but it's bandied around like some kind of voodoo.
It particularly gets on one's tits when used in the context of illness or other uncontrollable life events. The inference is that if someone doesn't survive their illness then it's down to the fact that they just weren't THINKING POSITIVELY enough. Ill people have enough shit on their plate just breathing in and out and dealing with things like pain and fear. The last thing they need is to be guilted into not being able to express these negative feelings in case it affects the magic that is being wrought by the positive thinking of everyone around them. It's bullshit. It's a crock. It's like PRAYING or HOMEOPATHY. All bollocky bollocks.
Being ill and hoping things will change is unhelpful. Being depressed and hoping things will change makes no sense. Hoping for a change of state in any capacity does absolutely fuck all. You can't control events with the power of your mind, you see. And the constant state of hope by definition puts you in a sort of holding pattern. Moving neither forward nor backwards. Not living today, this moment, right here with its potential pain and fear and sorrow, because you're holding out for that moment over there. It's basically waiting. Waiting and praying. And waiting and praying is no way to live your life.
The antithesis of hope is what? Desolation? Horror? I reckon it's acceptance. If you accept whatever craphole of a situation you're in right now - say, you're smack bang in the middle of a depressive episode, for example, or you've fucked something right up and you're reaping the consequences, or maybe your partner decided that they wanted to bugger off with someone else - whatever is going on, isn't it better to be in it, to face it and to go through it, rather than merely hoping it will change?
Hope in itself does nothing. We can all sit here and post make-up free selfies to Facebook and hope that we'll all magically 'beat cancer' but what actually contributes to that is the donation. It's the action. The doing. The giving. The changing. The researching. Sitting and hoping does fuck all. Less than fuck all. It could be actively damaging to a cause, to a life, to a future.
Hoping while acting could be a thing. Or looking on the brighter side of black, maybe. To me it's just another waste of energy attempt to control things. I'm a massive control freak and instinctively try to control every environment I'm in, every place I go, everything I do. Spontaneity isn't welcome in my head. I need to know where the exits are, who's going to be there and how I get the fuck away, should I need to.
I hoped this would change for many years. I hoped that the Velcro in my brain would become magically unstuck and I would become this relaxed, chilled person because, you know, I really really wanted it to. It's only relatively recently sunk in that if I want to change things and live a different me then I have to DO things to make that happen. Small steps. But small steps of action, not inertia. Small steps of doing, not praying. Small steps of being awake in the moment, not hiding behind gin or fags or fear anymore.
Living a life in hope is living a life in anticipation for something that may or may not happen. Sometimes it's giving up hope that sets us free.
Wednesday, 9 April 2014
"The never ending journeyyyyyyyyyyyyyy,
"Argh argh argh argh argh argh argh argh arghhhhhhhhh."
If Limahl had ever had to take an eight hour train journey from one end of the UK to the other then that is what he would be singing. He wouldn't have bothered with a tale of a boy fighting his fears in a fantasy world. He wouldn't need to sing about a world that needed saving if he was undergoing the cesspit of an overcrowded Virgin train with broken heating.
Of course, it's not actually Virgin Trains anymore as the franchises chop and change so often but I hate that pseudo hippy cocknugget so I'm going to blame it on him. Oi, Richard Branson, you're shit. Your trains SMELL and they were designed by MORONS who decided to devote three entire carriages on every train to massive toilets that please no one. The doors don't work properly. I know, because earlier I walked in on a Chinese girl having a wee. It wasn't a good moment for anyone.
And the heating is broken so the carriage is now at inferno style temperatures, which isn't helping my fast rising temper.
My booked seat is tiny. I can't reach the socket. I'm surrounded by gimps called Graham and Tony who have decided now is the perfect time to call everyone they know and talk about their boring fucking job.
Next to me right now is Graham. He's important, I can tell. I can tell because he's just repeatedly informed someone that he is Director of something and the new boss of that person. He has an Area and a Sector and a Region. He's blatantly trying to fire someone who is, apparently, an impediment to real change and moving forward. Graham is an asshole and I'm firmly on Martin's side.
On the other side of me is Glynnis. Glynnis doesn't know that train etiquette demands that beeping noises when you text should be turned OFF, GLYNNIS, OFF.
Behind me is a child. I don't know his name. But I don't like him.
I left York in a cloud of bonhomie and love for my fellow man. I'm now in the more familiar territory of black rage and bile.
I'm hot, dirty and tired, covered in other people's germs and micro organisms, assailed at all sides by annoying noises and the ins and outs of Graham's boring bastard life, I've had too much coffee and am jittery. It's Falling Down, all over again. Except with whiny blog posts instead of death and destruction.
Still, only the four hours to go.
Monday, 7 April 2014
People who comment on news stories about celebrities with a simple 'who?' say so much.
I can't quite explain how I admire their brave stance and their superior intellect. They don't know who that celebrity is, you see. That means they're too clever and this trivia shouldn't be brought to their attention.
Why don't the newspapers and news sources they've signed up to on social media only bring to their attention stories on worthy people? Why is that? I mean, they've only signed up to news sources that thrive and survive almost solely on the basis of mundane stories about celebrities so I can completely see their point.
And I find it really interesting and fascinating of them to feel the need to read a story about someone they're not interested in and then take the opportunity to tell everyone on the Internet that they've been forced into reading this puerile shit and are now compelled to comment on it and make it known that they didn't want to read this story because they're not interested in this facile subject matter and they don't EVEN KNOW WHO IT IS.
I say all this, of course, following the news about Peaches Geldof. Dead at 25. Two babies left behind.
The reason she's in the news is because she's famous. She may only be famous for being someone famous' daughter but famous she is. That's why it's being reported, you see.
It really is that simple. I feel compelled to address these people's endless concerns. She's being reported on because she's famous. She's being brought to your attention because you are following the news source you saw it on, it's unlikely anyone thinks her death is more important than anyone else's but the reason non famous people aren't reported on is because they're not famous and, finally, whether you think she's worthy to be a 'celebrity' or not is moot. She is famous.
They're the same people who see that a celeb has died and immediately infer it's drugs. Maybe it is. Maybe it isn't. Doesn't really matter does it?
All in the end is harvest. Be nice.
Oh, and you do know who she is. You just do.
Saturday, 5 April 2014
I had a night out last night. I went to see some lovely friends and watched some bands and then walked back home with very drunk people dropping kebab meat.
I went to bed at 3.30 and had fun. Actual FUN. I haven't had any of that for ages. Such fun in fact that I haven't been able to recover all day.
I didn't even drink. I don't give a shit about drinking or not drinking these days. It just doesn't matter. I've had throughly good nights totally sober and thoroughly awful nights drunk out of my gourd. And vice versa. If I'm not going to have fun I'm just not going to have fun. And if I am then I feel all fizzy and happy anyway.
For every good night I have with people, I need one on my own with Netflix and my bed. I'm old and I'm tired and I'm grumpy and I need time to just exist. And as much as the 20 somethings scoff at this, age does make a difference.
When you've been going out drinking and imbibing since 1993 it gets old. You get old. Tramping round town from dive to dive loses its appeal. Catching up on Masterchef and rehydrating with black tea and water grows in appeal. Exponentially.
Am I boring or introverted? I'm a boring, old introvert. Who likes to nap. And actually, with 38 fast approaching, I'm ok with that.
Oooh. Nap time.
Tuesday, 1 April 2014
I just encountered something I'm unused to. There was definitely a flicker of something unfurling deep inside me.
On leaving the gym just now I encountered a small child. As this is Seaview and thus full of extremely rich yachting types I wasn't unduly surprised to find he was dressed like Peter Davison era Doctor Who. All cricket whites and jumper round his waist.
I was walking past when I realised he was crying. So I turned around and crouched down and asked him what was wrong.
Do you remember when you were a child and sometimes you cried so hard and so bitterly that you found that you couldn't actually speak? When every word gets somehow swallowed by the great gulps of air you have to take?
That's what was happening to this little dude. He can't have been more than three and he was so upset that he turned my heart. Usually it turns my stomach.
He eventually managed to choke out what was wrong. It is a very Seaview issue for a three year old to have to deal with.
"Daddy... snort, gulp... forgot... myyyy... gulp, wheeze, tennis racquuuuetttt."
He actually put his arms round my neck while I found his tennis coach (yes, really) who took it from there.
Does that count as a maternal instinct? Does it just mean I am, after all, human? Is it because I'm on my period? Just what is going on?