Just to be clear, they’re metaphorical ants, but I’ll check anyway…
Yup, definitely metaphorical (good job most of you don’t know what I look like, because there’s a mental image you could have done without. For those that do know me… oops).
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve sat here to write a post* over the last week or so, with my fingers poised above the keyboard, but my each time my brain muttered, ‘You want me to do what now? Concentrate? I don’t feckin’ think so pal’.
So I tried reading blog posts instead.
Rolling its eyes and sighing, my brain said, ‘What part of ‘I can’t focus’ don’t you understand, you pillock?’
So I gave up, which made me miss my blog’s first birthday. My poor blog, sitting here, expecting a few balloons and party poppers, maybe some wine, definitely a cake with a candle, or at the very least a smidgeon of attention from me. Instead it had to hold itself a party for one, because it got nothing else, not even a cupcake.
I feel so guilty.
But wait.
I can go one better than that.
What was worse than forgetting my blog’s birthday?
I forgot my mum’s birthday.
That really did have me hanging my head in shame.
Luckily, she forgave me and totally understood why I forgot, the reason for which is one I’ll get to in a minute or two.
My blog couldn’t give a toss.
It wanted cake, dammit.
My restlessness did take a short break last week when I managed to sit in the hairdressers long enough to lose the Johnny-Depp-as-Sweeney-Todd hair colour I had going on.
I was in the hairdressers for three friggin’ hours. That’s how much grey there was.
The other morning, I looked the front garden with fresh eyes and realised the grass desperately needed cutting, and thought, ‘A-ha! Distraction tactics! Must. Cut. Grass.’ so I inserted my earphones in my ears, put my iPod on shuffle and got stuck in.
For some reason the grass closest to the ditch seems to grow fifty times faster than the rest of it. It was that long and swishy, I was surprised I didn’t discover a previously unknown species of animal amongst it.
At some point while I was cutting swathes through the jungle height grass, I inadvertently became a contender for the street’s She’s Off Her Head Award. My entry was unintentional, but when I listen to music (a.k.a. bangin’ choons), I start dancing. So there I was, lost in a world of my own, cutting the grass, while getting on down and shakin’ ma thang. In the front garden. Totally oblivious. In full view of the neighbours. It was very fortunate I didn’t start singing too.
In the back garden, I was involuntarily ‘treated’ to viewing pigeon porn. One minute there were two pigeons and the next thing I knew, there seemed to be pigeons at it all over the place.
Beak nuzzling and everything.
It wasn’t even pay-per-view.
They had no shame.
Or business sense.
Anyway, the reason for my twitchy, unable-to-concentrate-on-anything-for-any-length-of-time is because over on the other side of the world, Baby Wotsit is due to make an appearance any day now, but Eldest Daughter has put a request in for me to start writing again as she’d like something to read while she’s in labour.
“I’m in labour, fetch my laptop, I must read my mum’s blog,” she’ll command. Somehow, I think not. I’d be impressed if she did though.
Eldest Daughter and I have been chatting daily either on the phone or, even better, via webcam. A while ago it tickled me to learn that Baby Wotsit enjoys listening to Mozart. What tickled me even more, was being told Baby Wotsit also gets on down and boogies on hearing Michael Bublé. Or in the words of Eldest Daughter, ‘Not just a boogie... A full blown roll around, kick mum in the ribs party...’
She’s been asking for my pearls of wisdom regarding labour and childbirth, amongst which I offered this:
Make sure there’s nothing good on tv and that there’s enough petrol in the car.
I speak, of course, from experience. When I was pregnant with Youngest Daughter, I didn’t know I was in labour until my waters broke as I got into bed. I waddled back downstairs, where my ex husband was settling down to watch a boxing match on the tv.
On being told I needed to get to the hospital, Mr Ex woke three year old Eldest Daughter and brought her downstairs. Then you’d expect to read that we all got into the car to make our way to hospital, but you’d be wrong.
Mr Ex made us wait while he set the feckin’ video timer to record the feckin’ boxing.
Do you remember how long it used to take to set a video timer?
No?
Several contractions, that’s how long.
Eventually, the three of us got in the car and on starting it, Mr Ex immediately realised there wasn’t enough petrol to get to the hospital, which was eight miles away. We had to drive in the wrong direction to the nearest petrol station, where I think he filled the car up a drip of petrol at a time, while I was trying not to freak out Eldest Daughter each time I had a contraction.
Reciting all the names from Thomas the Tank Engine, followed by singing endless verses of ‘The wheels on the bus go round and round…’ kept her amused, but I can’t say it did anything for me.
By the time we got to the hospital (with most of the journey spent by me alternately breathing through contractions and swearing quietly because I felt every.single.bump. that we drove over), I was unable to get out of the car unaided, let alone walk. A wheelchair was fetched, which I was helped into and Youngest Daughter was born a short while later.
Not in the wheelchair I hasten to add.
* Just so you know, it doesn’t normally take me very long to write a post – an hour or so. This one has taken me two days. TWO DAYS. Fucking ants.
