Feeling like Lady Macbeth
I couldn't sleep last night. There was a Lebanese woman on the news who's husband and son had been killed who really got to me. She looked into the camera and in perfect English told her story and asked the world for help. I felt like she was addressing me personally and was overwhelmed by my inability to do anything to assist her.
I rejoined the Labour Party a few weeks ago, it wasn't a decision I came lightly to. I'd lapsed partly due to being overseas, partly due to finding it hard to stay motivated with Blair's record on foreign policy.
Watching the 'Yo Blair' 'I've hand knitted you a jumper Mr President' exhange,
Seeing Britian play puppet as the Ayatollah and the Cowboy give others bombs to use in a game of 'who's the big dick?',
Listening to the men I worked so hard for so often, use excuses to explain why a ceasefire is not worth calling for immediately....
Makes me want to tear up my shiny new membership card.
I'm sure the Tories would do the same..
I believe that the way to change things is from the inside not the outside
I know that in lots of other areas my party has a record I can be proud of, but
That woman is in my head and I feel like the blood of her family is on my hands as long as I support a party that has done so little to protect her.
I look around. I know that the foreign policy position of Number Ten doesn't reflect the membership. Where are the voices saying that though? Only Kim Howells has said anything I understand and I know enough to doubt whether that was anything other than an engineered sop to pacify the activists.
I miss Mo, and Robin.
Yet again the supposed outspoken big cheeses, the politicians famed for being blunt and being direct seem to have choked on their toungues. Gordon, predictably by now, is lying low. As if by saying nothing he can be all things to all people, except of course any kind of help to the blood soaked innocents.
I know from my time in NUS how powerful the pro Isreal lobby in London is. I got taken to Israel by them, on a trip designed to make me keep my mouth shut. I understand why so many others do exactly that. It takes a brave politician to stand up and run the risk of being labelled anti-semetic when actually, they're pro peace.
I miss the innocence of opposition. I miss being able to wear my politics with honour. I miss feeling like things, really can, only get better. I don't know what to do about it but I do know that I need to find another career because the one I'm in demands silence and silence breeds complicity. I don't know how yet, but I do know that I need to find a way to feel less impotent when I get asked again for my help.
false alarm apparently
not in labour at all said the midwife this morning. Thanks for all the ipod suggestions, the playlist is growing and I'm trying hard not to listen to the plethora of top tunes before the big event.
This one's for Ailsa
zip, nothing, nada. The machine's telling fibs I reckon.
Zen despite the crazymakers
I was up to see the sun rise this morning. Candyfloss colours striped the sky as the sun laid a golden path accross the ocean from the beach below the cliff at the end of Dad's garden to the faint line of the mist shrouded horizon. I was assuaged by biblical refernces, Jesus walking on water, the parting of the dead sea, and felt like the sun's bridge accross the ocean was a way of saying Freddie would live without barriers, a life with a clear path imprinted on the canvass of the natural world.
It was five fifteen, I am a tad sleep deprived, still, the natural inclination to take the piss out of myself has been resisted. Now is, I've decided, no time to get all witty at the expense of my spiritual side. I want to revel in gentleness, find things beautiful, be enveloped in mother nature's copuious bosom.
A few hours later, sat on the beach, sobbing for the first time in months, over a spectacular bit of simultaneous crazymaking by my mum and dad, (which I shan't recount for loyalty, and a fear you wouldn't belive the tales...) I reread this hand written entry and managed to rediscover zen with the image of my private sunrise.
I spent last night preparing for Fred's arrival in decadent fashion. I indulged in a pampering session that would suffice were Mr Depp himself coming for dinner. It isn't easy trying to shave, exfoliate and polish legs with a giant beachball obscuring the view of all but my inner ankle, regardless of bathtub angle. I thought of David Blunkett as I used my fingerips to check my handywork and wondered if that's why his usual look is stubbled. I did facepacks and hairpacks, slathered my skin in special bump potions. Everything about my body feels soft and sexy even if my breasts and bump are swelling faster than a behind plumped determinedly in a hornets nest.
I've swapped the witches skirt for new tactile trousers and a seriously flattering maternity top (both soft charcoal), and accessorised with my uber-bling deep green flower ring and a set of natural glossy wood beads that showcase hues of green and gold whilst resting on Freddie's feet.
I've done natural sunkissed make up, painted toes scarlet and finger nails clear in a wink to the supposed virgin/whore of everywoman. I feel fabulous.
'Ready Freddie?' I whisper to the bump
'nope, not yet' the belly replies.
all quiet on the contraction front
Everybody Deserves Music
Borrowed a title from the delectable Michael Franti, but honestly, I've been swamped for choices. Plan was to have a daily tally of top playlist suggestions, but it all went a bit mad yesterday when you lot filled my inbox with glorious abandon. Nicki spent a whole day not working, then sent through a revised and improved list, Ails's top ten made my mouth water, and the humour has been Fredtastic. Stand and deliver ('your money or your life, Fred'll take both' says lil sis), push it says Paddy, the drugs don't work ('cept the epidural which you should bloody have', lil sis again), Cherish by Jodeci says Justine, mac volunteers buttercup, Karina pops in Jewel's beautiful 'a life uncommon', thank you, you're all lush - your choices have been likewise and vats of apologies to those I haven't thanked here, the mail box is still filling up as we speak.
Deciding that everybody deserves music, I took Freddie out to hear Lianne Carol, a blow your head off jazz singer last night. T'was a fabulous evening, Lisa and her mum, dad and Maggie, Lisa's flatmate and lush new fella and a few random folk who were alone so we adopted them. Fred had a ball, bounced the night away, I did likewise, albeit only in my chair. It was one of those nights where I felt like there was nowhere in the world better to be than where I was. When Lianne sang cry me a river, I nearly did. When she covered Christina's (how exciting, new album out next month, can't wait) beautiful, she did it better than the dirty girl, and I found myself totally smitten with 'your song', even though I've always hated both the Elton and Leonard Cohen versions. She's singing with the BBC's big band for Radio 2, 9pm monday for any jazz fans.
Got home, headed to bed around half twelve and 45 minutes later was woken by abdominal pains. Dad was marvellous when I announced he needed to get up and drive me to hospital. I was calm, for his sake, even though inside I was convinced I'd killed the baby by having a glass and a half of wine. (honestly, this pregnancy thing makes opus dei-ers look chilled on the guiltometre- apparently this is what it's like from here on in). Fortunately it was nought so dramatic, he's fine, but I may be in the very early stages of labour. As was Dad when the nurse rolled on her rubber gloves and announced she was going to give me an internal whilst he was in the room. Here's a man who has never so much as shown me his bum in 34 years of fatherhood. He quite literally went green and shrank back into the armchair till I said 'honey, you can nip out if you prefer' at which point he leapt across the room like a man in no need of a new hip.
Suddenly all thoughts of angel wing mirrors are out, Clarence and I have spent the morning haring round mothercare for much less glamourous purchases, which I won't itemise for you, suffice to say - I never knew there were so many places to pop absorbant fabrics. I haven't packed my bag exactly, but I've got the contents for it. Naturally I've got a full make up bag and some fabulous accessories alongside the things I'm not thinking about. Fred's going to be fabulously dressed in some of the sexy baby clothes you lot have provided.
Don't panic, we're probably still days from full on contractions, although, sadly, as the nurse confirmed for me, somewhere between 12 and 20 (when i reckon my house will be habitatable for a little 'un) is looking a tad optimistic at this point. And, as I told the person who lamented spending all that time picking top tunes, I'll have them all with me, that's top job after the bag's been packed.
Wish me luck, and, I'll keep you posted
(Nearly not) Preggers
Please Read This - or, with a little help from your friends / calling all the heros
My life has a theme tune. There are songs that can flood me with memories and turn me from animated storyteller reaching the comedy climax to battler of the overflowing tear ducts in opening bars. Some songs have stayed with me for years making a plethora of impacts, Everything but the Girl's amplified heart, Groove Amarda's sandunes, Eddie Reader's joke.
Others offer just a glimpse of a moment. Driving through the country lanes in Nicki's old banger singing the Beautiful Souths a little time or primal scream's (all together as one?), dancing with Gavin and Sam as the bats came in to roost against the sunset of Centennial Park in Sydney with Roisin Murphy stood resplendent in a viking helmet and royal blue costume drama dress seducing the audience with (Moloko's) cannot contain this, swooning in the arms of the street hockey player famous, momentarily, for being in a tango advert at Southborough village hall as a teenager to crowded house's weather with you.
My friends, family, lovers, are all set to music in my head. As are places, events, eras. There's wedding songs, funeral songs, passion tunes, break up anthems, songs to dance round the kitchen to, songs to put on when my world needs sunshine... so it seems only right there should be a soundtrack to give birth to.
Not only does that give me something to get excited about over the whole childbirth thing, but it means there's a chance me, mum and little sis can distract ourselves from the less glamorous aspects of labour by harmonising round the birthing pool. (Been there, done it's, sshhhh please if that's wildly optimistic!)
I've checked, it's allowed, so all I need now is a playlist.
Amy has somewhat predictably volunteered Wham (for those that don't know her, her musical world revolves round them), I'm your man and wake me up before you go go to be precise. I've bagged here comes the sun and never tear us apart. Dad's thrown in wild thing (I don't know who he's referring to, best not to ask) So that's the first quarter of an hour seen to. Just need another 38 or so hours to be on the safe side. So this is a plea to all of you beautiful blog followers to help me fill the time. There are no rules, you can play with the title, pick a song for it's soothing or uplifting virtues, bung something in cos you like it, work on the basis that your choices will be at least a distraction from pain, get witty, crude, cheesy or anything else you feel like being, as long as it's involved. Every song offered will be added from itunes to my ipod, or popped onto 'freddie's welcome' if I already have it and they'll be played on random during the labour. That way I get to feel the glow of having all my friends in the same room, without putting any of us through that at one moment when that wouldn't actually be pleasurable. There's no genre boundaries, I'll struggle to love thrash metal but I'll play it if you volunteer it, other than that my tastes are pretty prolific. You can volunteer the rationale or throw me the artist and title.
Please pass this round to anyone who knows me but doesn't visit here, and get your suggestions to me any way you fancy, email, text, here, letter, carrier pigeon.. but don't leave it too long to think about cos I could need them at any moment, you can always add more later if we get there.
I'm actually smiling at the idea of something connected to childbirth, how cool is that, and how cool are you lot for being so fabulous that I know you'll come through on this....
Joo T'adore
Oh and
Lots of you have asked about whether I've heard from Fred's dad. The answer's no. The way I see it he didn't have a choice in whether I had the baby so he's entitled to a choice about whether to get involved. I actually feel lots of empathy for him, I suspect, if he choses to stay away, that's probably a tough call long term. He struck me as a decent guy embroiled in a battle with his self esteem and I'm not sure he'll be too kind with himself if he stays silent.
I may drop him a line when Fred's here just to say he's here, here's a picture, I'll support your decision if you stay away and won't bother you again, but this is where we are if you change your mind. I may just leave him be. I'm struggling with what's the right thing to do on that one so any private advice / wisdom welcome.
Things to make you go 'yum'
Maybe it's the confirmation that the nasty scan man in London really did get it wrong and Fred in fact has a perfectly normal sized head, maybe it's the copious amounts of play time with the family or maybe I'm getting high on sea air, but I can't stop smiling.
Things that have made the smile broaden this week include
Walking out of my front door, turning right and finding a 270 degree panaroma featuring a castle, rolling hills, fishing boats, cliff edges and vats of ocean. I know it's going to be there but every time I see I inhale like I've just stumbled across it.
Hearing Nina Simone's acoustic version of 'here comes the sun'. And some song on the radio called voodoo girl I think, that I know will make the dance round the kitchen list.
Finding out little Toto the Cheetah cub survived the baboons in the BBC's big cat week (let's not go to the final episode where something else got him).
An afternoon giggling with Lisa, a sparkling artist I met in Sydney who's back from down under and moved round the corner.
All 376 of Nicki's beautiful wedding pictures, she looked like a 1950's movie star.
Walking across the cliffs and being assailed by the scent of salt water mixed with freshly mown grass.
Making ginger bread men with my neices.
An email from lovely man showcasing a playful side.
Knowing Ben came top of his year in his SATs scoring over 90% in maths and science.
Seeing my head images for my house come true and loving every one of them.
The house is a long way from finished but it's giving much pleasure now. The kitchen has been totally transformed, infused by light by swapping a tiny window for french doors and moving the units round. It's still full of cement buckets and bits of dismantled units but I can close my eyes and hear the laughter of hostessing friends in the future.
My bedroom and the nursery are almost finished, the colours are so calm and fresh I float up the stairs.
I'm loving the fact that for the first time as a homeowner, the decisions are mine alone there's no need for compromise. Sam was all minimialist by instinct, straight lines and hard edged surfaces. Her ideal homes were full of industrial materials and colours reminiscent of school uniforms, greys, taupes, navys, browns.
I don't know whether it's about discovering my own taste or bloody mindedness, but I've rebelled against every home we ever made together and gone uber feminine throughout, everything's curvy and tactile. Even the walls look soft enough to stroke. School uniform is out, soft aquarmarines and pastels are in. Where she would have had brilliant white, I've popped a splash of pink in to make it chalky. Where she would have kept the stainless steel lights, I've put a creamy chandalier with tiny crystals and dusty pink flowers in it's place.
I've been getting my priorites a bit wrong again, but having fun with the freedom to do so. I still need a cot mattress for example, but I've brought one of Lisa's paintings for the nursery, (how could I not? It's called head in the clouds and features a gangly giraffe with, you guessed it, his head...). I still need curtains and carpets, but I'm ok for ostrich feather table lamps and the kitschest mirror in the world, studded with lights to create huge shimmering angel wings once plugged in.
Hastings has gone all Boho and I'm revelling in it. Dad has an eclectic group of friends who gather for breakfast in a cafe opposite the fishing huts. I've started joining them, and loving it. There's Dave, the Daily Mail reading illiberal old git, side by side with Brian the hippy from the second hand book shop and Paddy the eccentric Irishman who sleeps in a beach hut.
I've found out about a writers group, am collecting info on the acting scene and have already been recruited to help the local Labour party with their press and campaigning strategies. Those activities are all on hold until the house is done and I've bonded with baby but I'm excited about getting to them at a later date.
This not working thing.....yum.
Mad about the boy
A friend asked at the weekend 'is it boys now then?'. Questions like this are pretty much par for the course for anyone honest enough to own the title bisexual (and you'd be suprised how many aren't, I know women who describe themselves as straight because, for example, 'i sleep with women but only love men' and lesbians who refuse to shift that tag despite having had long and if you probe, for a time at least, sexually and romantically fulfilling marriages). Whilst internet dating I was amazed by the number of men who had ticked the 'straight' box who sent me confessional emails explaining their same sex sex filled schooldays, because I hadn't. I understand all this. Bi isn't an easy title to wear. People assume you're into swinging or polymonogomy (I love that word, it's hilariously lacking it's own irony), or that life is all open relationships and ditching girls for boys and boys for girls. None of which have ever been what it's about for me.
I never intended to start dating women, I just fell for one and am too much of a romantic to let what feels like it may be a good thing, pass me by. When I met Hannah I had assumed that my first girlfriend was a one off and that dating men again was the future. Hannah had an initial impact that no one else had ever had. I felt, literally, blown across the room at the sight of her and realised pretty quickly that maybe the girl thing was more prolific than 'a' girl. Then, after two long term relationships with women, spanning more than a decade, it seemed silly on some levels to object when people used words to describe me other than bisexual. I knew I was a person not gender romantic, but explaining that and getting past all the phobia it entailed was something I only did around my gay friends, or when asked.
Things have shifted a tad for me lately though. Part of the attraction of women for me has always been that they're not men. The men in my life have, on the whole, been a bit rubbish. The women in my life have been emotionally intelligent, strong, loyal and easy to communicate with. I learnt pretty quickly that dating girls didn't actually guarantee a sense of sisterhood free from the worst of male female relationships, girlfriend number one went off to have tea with an ex and didn't come back for three days, for example. But I still felt until very recently, like, on the whole, women were much more my thing.
The physical revolution started with Germaine Greer's book on the beauty of boys, published about 2 years ago. Her photographs made me think of men as sexy again, not least because she had taken them. Then came the Balinese prince and the fact he was the first man to have the 'Hannah effect' on me, even if that was the relationship least likely to succeed ever. Then Frazer, Freddie's dad, who I really found sexy and had a very relaxed and amusing time with. So gradually, over a couple of years and the same number of men, I came to stop viewing sexiness as a predominantly female domain.
Then came the more important mental revolution. I'd always had a few lovely male friends, but they were countable on one hand and usually gay. Then my friends finally stopped being fucked about by men not nearly as interesting, beautiful or together as them, and started introducing me to men I actually enjoyed spending time with. Most of my close girlfriends are now settled with men I adore. It still suprises me because mostly, both the school girls and uni girls took a long time finding them and I'd assumed that was because such men didn't exist beyond the cinema and odd Nelson Mandela type.
I am finding this all a bit amazing actually. I feel like life has an miraculous way of delivering what you need, and that, given I'm entering a 'here comes the son' phase of my life, I needed to learn to celebrate men. That doesn't mean I've stopped celebrating women, just that for the first time, there's an equality around gender that I've been missing from my life. Ironically, it's taken this long for me actually to live up to my labels and values. I'm hoping it makes me a better mother as well as a more open minded woman.
Life goes on, albeit not for Goldie
Who's carked it, or should that be carped it? I was at Jane Durkin's house at the time, enjoying the hedonism of friendships that have survived more than twenty years and are now more comfortable than a worn Parker Knoll. Lin, partner of Glin, the decorator / plumber / kitchen fitter, fished Goldie out and fed him to the seagulls apparently.
Dad & I clashed, he stormed out in full on diva-style last week, breaking my front door as he went. Then we talked. A really grown up conversation where I explained calmly how he needed to explain calmly to me what was going on in his head, rather than just shout me down every time I voiced a view, idea or thought. Things feel seismically different since and we're more chilled with each other than I can remember being for years.
I'm back to being a gypsy, carrying my bag around from bed to bed whilst Glin and Lin sleep in mine. They've actually worked out well. She's a marvellous northern woman who pretends rock but is obviously more marshmellow, especially when it comes to him. He's a drunk who had a major brain hermorragh several years ago, they've been friends for years and got together shortly after he left hospital. She saved his life he says. He camped out in the pub as a convalescent because he wasn't up to returning to his work as a plasterer. She decided after a few months that enough was enough and having dug out his toolkit, went out to find him some work. He isn't as quick as he once was, but she goes with him, mixes his cement, runs round doing the prep, and together, they are as good as he ever was in his prime, I suspect better. She's been a star, worth her weight in gold round my place. He's in bed today recovering she says, from a 'bug', he's more honest admitting it was a heavy weekend.
I'm over the birth fears, gave myself a stern talking to about how millions of women do it daily and have done throughout time, in circumstances a lot less priviledged than mine. Seems to have done the trick. I'm aiming for as drug and intervention free a labour as possible, but with the flexibility to bend that if bending is called for.
Wherefore art thou lioness?
One of the things I have always prided myself on is my courage. I have never for example, done that avoid someone thing when something uncomfortable had to be said or done. I have never seen difficulty as a reason to give up on anything or anyone I believe in. I've had scalpels down my throat without anesthetic. I've worked through addictions and betrayals, dated men en route to being women and women en route to being men. I've been abused for holding a girls hand in public and refused to let go nonetheless, been beaten up but not beaten. I've stood in front of someone I cared about to stop him being hurt when I had no certainty I wouldn't be, I've taken on a gang of teenage boys who followed me round a shop shouting about my cleavage, and after dunking one in the crevice he was so keen to comment on, silenced the lot of them.
I have I think, reasons to be proud of my bravery.
Only now, less than a month from Fred's due date, I seem to have misplaced it.
My midwife talks about birth plans, and I have to resist the temptation to pop my fingers in my ears and hum loudly.
My pregnacy book gives me a list of things to plan around the delivery, I slam it shut and pop it back in storage.
I can't even bring myself to pack an overnight bag.
People ask me if I'm excited, and I tell them I'm doing my pelvic floors to hold him in. I'm not joking.
Mum says very sensibly, 'darling it's a day of pain and unlike most pain, you know it'll end, you know why you're having it, and at the end you'll be holding something special'.
I agree with her. But, the book remains closed, the birth plan's not written and the bag isn't packed.
It's not the pain so much as the invasion of my body I fear. Here I am, for all the bravado, a girl who needs half a bottle of wine and preferably a couple of joints to get her kit off in front of someone for the first time....about to be poked and prodded by people I've never met before. I'm scared of having my waters broken which sounds nasty, of being cut, which makes me gag, of stirrups and forceps and stiches. I'm scared of feeling out of control whilst the medical profession make decisions about incisions and talk in a a language I don't immediately understand and that, if the going gets tough, they could be hesitant to translate.
I'm scared to make a plan in case I need to tear it up, and scared not to in case I get there and don't know how I want it to go if could all go to one.
I'm scared for Freddie and his big head, scared he'll be in distress or hurt on the way out, or have something wrong with him when he gets here.
I can't even decide whether I want to do the earth mum jasmine scented water birth holistic thing, or fill myself up and float away on a wave of pethadine and an epidural.
I do know, as the false labour pains keep reminding me, that actually at some point, ready or not, it's happening, and that when it does, I'll need the lioness. So if anyone sees her, please, give her a stroke and send her this way.
a case of mistaken identity rather than a miracle
But I promised not to go there.
Today has been stressful. Mostly of the father generated kind. Dad has been fabulous in helping with the house, but as is so often the case, his involvement comes at a price, usually yielding of complete control. He's stressed that I've followed his advice to get the guys to do tasks rather than rooms, i.e strip all the walls, then paint all the ceilings, and hence the whole place is in chaos. He's worried, as I am, that the baby will come before anything gets finished.
So he decided to lampoon Les, my terrific builder. Les is a love, so concerned was he about me sleeping in a house with a hole in the wall that he turned up with a full tool kit at 8am Saturday morning to build me a makeshift back door. Admittedly, it was mostly fabric and not hard to get through with the aid of say, a knife, but I loved him for it regardless.
He's also rearranged his other jobs to get my french windows in in the shortest possible time, thus solving the hole in the wall dilemma, and has just been an all round superstar.The argument centred round Les's reluctance to plumb in my kitchen, Les' argument, he's not a plumber. 'Fair enough' says the bump lugger, 'let's find a plumber then'. Ken,'do it on the cheap' Eason objects. Him and Les scream at each other for an hour, I retreat. Try and make amends when Dad has gone with vats of coffee and the advice of 'just say 'yes Ken' and then you and I will do our own thing Les'.
Dad then nearly starts on Shane who turns in a bit late, but I put my foot down and shoo him out the door.
An hour later he's back.
He's found a plumber, who also happens to be a plasterer and a decorator and horray, is moving into my house with his wife for two weeks tomorrow. So I need to find them a double bed and could Shane just stop making a decent job of my paintwork and finish it all off with a quick slap of paint so my bedroom is sorted cos they can sleep there seeing as how there is only one double bed, and could I get the place hoovered so they have a nice room, and sort out towels and bedding and stuff and by the way, they're a pair of boozers but harmless enough though I may want to find somewhere else to live cos they do row when they've had a few, but he comes for fifty quid a day and she comes with him.
I say 'Dad, could they stay with you tomorrow seeing as how they don't start work till Thursday as I've a paper to finish that's urgent for work, and a midwife appointment, and an antenatal class and could do without being under pressure to get this tip into guest house status at the same time and finding somewhere to stay to boot?' he says 'no way, they're not staying with me, I just have them work for me but not stay, they're at yours'.
I say, 'thanks very much, I appreciate you're trying to get me sorted, cheers for organising that'. I then mention that whilst I'd be glad of the help on the plastering and decorating front, I have stayed in a house this man has plumbed, and it was a tad on the noisy side (think space shuttle lift off every time you pull a chain / run a tap), but that didn't go down well so naturally they're starting with the plumbing.
Through all of this he's dreadful, lampooning me at one point for the fact there's a wardrobe in the top room left by the old inhabitants which will interefere with the plastering. I mention that lugging this down 4 flights of stairs to the unpacked stuff room whilst pregnant is not really an option, but whilst I know he'd go ballistic if I tried to, he's in an unreasonable mood and that fails to pacify him.
Maggie mentions that his hip is playing up quite badly, hence the short fuse and then rings me later to say she's got the bedding and towels, bless her as I have no washing machine due to the unplumbed kitchen and my towels are awaiting one.
I'd probably have cried if not screamed and started rocking, but as always there's someone looking after me. Today she sent the kind man from work who turns out not to think I'm nuts and has been the perfect gentle antedote to distract me from the roaring. Cathy also sent me a moving in card with a frog on the front and the words, 'frog / mermaid - quite similar?' inside, which made me laugh out loud.
No loaves, but fishes
It's a miracle. I go to feed the fish this morning and the previously floppy Goldie is nipping round the pond Schumacher stylie. Better still, his mouth is healed and as I plop the food in, he's straight there, feasting post famine.
I'm almost tempted to get down on my knees and thank the deity, but, as a secular type, I just do a little 'cheers big woman' under my breath and hope that suffices.
This is, I promise, barring a relapse, the end of the fish posts.
x
It's the quiet ones you have to watch
as any paramedic will tell you. Apparently if you're screaming, chances are you'll pull through.
So there I was getting all distracted by Goldie's dramatic non fish face-ness, when actually, t'was (another stunningly titled specimen, who, until his ceremony this morning didn't even merit naming) Silver, I should have kept an eye on.
Goldie is still swimming, Silver's in a bin sack awaiting collection.
My poor decorator, Shane, who I've kmown for at least a decade since he worked for Dad, is being very brave about it all. He doesn't wince or flinch when he turns up for work in the morning to have me do my best 'ignore the bump, pretend I'm sexy' impression as, all pathetically put on girlish helplessness, I hand him the fishing net and send him pondward for yet another carcass removal.
I'm not sure how he'll feel however when I tell him what's in store if Goldie's latest growth treatment fails to work magic. After another trip to fishworld, we've upped the strength of his medicine. I have however been warned that 'chances are love, it won't do a darn thing and you'll have to put him out of his misery'. Fishworld woman softened a little on seeing my face at this news, and, no doubt mistaking me for a fish fettishist, said, 'you never know though, some pull through'. I ventured, half an hour later, after stocking up on pond aloe vera to calm Goldie whilst he starves, to enquire as to the best method of stopping the suffering should it come to that. You'll be gladder than Shane to hear that popping him in a plastic bag and whacking him on the head with a saucepan was the expert recommendation. I haven't broached it with Shane yet, I'm preparing him with little gifts of ice lollies and 'it's so hot, do nip off early' in case I need the credit. On the upside, Goldie and his mates, plus all his accessories are in the local paper so Shane & I are hoping they'll be someone elses problem shortly. On the good news front, it seems that balancing precariously after a good clamber up some slabs of awful faux waterfall and getting elbow deep in waterfall weed, in order to clear the way for the water to fall, has reaped dividends. The goldfish pond appears no longer to be leaking.
The other silver lining in all this is that it gives me a chance to meet the neighbours, who are taking advantage of the lovely weather to relax seaward in their gardens. I'm not doing that partly due to the fact I'm stuck trying to write a paper for a Minister, and partly because my decking is currently a rubble dump. The other upside is that I'm not a 'what will the neighbours think?' woman, or else I'd be seriously concerned that they only see me sixteen times as day as I fly out the back door to stand on the steps and headcount the ponds or adjust the hosepipe.
There is a life beyond the fish, I will be able to blog once they've been flogged, but, I'm too tired to relay it so I'll pray on your knowledge that I may be a woman possessed, but I'll get it back in perspective.
xxx
