Friday, 29 July 2011


I need to confess. Christ, I'm not even a Catholic. But I need to tell someone and it has to be you - because I'm alone, as usual, as I am every night almost, and the kids are finally asleep, and my only company is Sky + and a glass of red.

My heart is heavy. The truth of it all is that whilst I may joke that I am CrummyMummy I feel much worse than that. I don't know where to start. Maybe... maybe back a few weeks ago - when I went to York for a few days alone, to work. Or to work out what I am going to do, now I am a mother of two who still needs to earn. I thought I'd find it incredibly hard being away from the kids. Thought I would miss them dreadfully and yearn to return.

But I didn't. I am ashamed to say I found the whole 2.5 days blissful. I woke naturally at 9am. I went for a run without having to bargain with Husband about how long I'd be. I made coffee and read papers. I surfed the net uninterrupted. I wrote. I felt me again. I was selfish. And I loved it. I came home, of course delighted to see the kids, but it was like some spell had been broken. Instead of the daily chores being just the daily chores they squeezed my throat a little tighter - I felt an odd resentment creeping up on my shoulder. I felt an irrational anger at having to wipe and clean and coo and mother. I just wanted to make it stop. I wanted to be ME again.

I think I am a shit mother. My kids are loved and read to and played with and fed a healthy assortment of foods and they get to go all kinds of activities - and you would never know, you would never see, that behind the tight smile and the 'I will find joy in this if it kills me' I feel miserable. Not all the time. Just some of the time. I think I am odd. I don't LOVE motherhood like other mothers do. It doesn't fulfil me on every level. I miss working, I miss office life, I miss reporting, I miss an edit suite when you nail a report. I miss chatting to writers and making a story work. I miss drinking in Soho until 2am and ending up at a dodgy late night drinking den doing shots. I miss going to screenings at Mr Youngs, or any screen in Golden Sq W1 and then reviewing films on TV shows... I miss so much of my old life that sometimes I wonder how I ended up where I am.

And the fact that I am not as in love with motherhood as other mothers makes me feel so fucking guilty, so acutely aware that I am different that I am defensive and frightened and always watching other Mums to see how I should be - am I making the grade? I don't know why there is a part of me - and you will hate me for saying this - that doesn't understand how anyone could want to be just a mother. Isn't that awful? Just a mother - listen to me, I say it like it is some dead end job. I don't mean it badly. I just worked so hard to get my degree, to be a presenter and then become a script editor, that I hate the fact I have had to give it up. I have no idea how I would ever work and juggle two kids, when Husband works such crazy hours - and I doubt I would earn enough to pay a nanny. I find myself insanely jealous of those who can afford nannies, those who can work. I try to make snide remarks about others bringing up their kids, why have kids blah blah - but I am just being a bitch because I am so green with envy, that they get to work, they get to do something for themselves, that I have to hide it behind a mask of smugness that I am a 'stay at home mother' don'tcha know?

The months roll on and in a matter of weeks my statutory maternity measley £125 a week will end and I will have not a penny. Husband says it is crazy for me to think about finding a job - when there are none, and anyway, they would be full time, and dramas are all filmed outside London nowadays and with the kids I couldn't go, and how would I get into and out of London every day in nursery hours blah blah. And he is right. And I chose all this. I wanted my family. I love them more than anything in my life - I swear to god I do. But why I am then crying as I type? Why do I feel like I have disappeared, that the girl that once was so ambitious, that worked so so hard, is now just a memory?

Now that summer is here and Sproglet is off and I have to find ways to fill his days, and mine and the baby's - I just feel so stressed. There are some cool Mums I know - but they have all gone/are going back to work. I am left talking to folk who think I am interested that their daughter crapped on the carpet today - when inside I want to scream - can't we talk about ANYTHING apart from kids????? The phone hacking scandal, The Murdochs, Norway, Winehouse, Obama and US debt - the news has been overflowing recently with tragedy and intrigue and debate. And I'm talking about potty training....

I am sorry - I shouldn't have blogged. I sound like such an ungrateful, spiteful cow. Husband is back at work, I guess I just see my empty diary, the loneliness bites and the dark thoughts that haunt me at night begin to haunt me in the day. I just want something for myself I guess. Something that involves people. I love people. A friend recently told me she had never known anyone who enjoyed meeting people as much as I do. How can you not? Everyone has a story. Everyone has a secret. Everyone has something to give or share. I miss being a Samaritan. The list of things I miss feels so long, and I feel so selfish for having it. I look around all the time and wonder 'are you like me?' But they aren't. They are better Mothers. They seem to just fit with motherhood, like a glove. It just makes me feel like I failed somewhere down the line - in my career, and now in my home life too.

Ok, enough of my pity party. I'm off to drink some red, watch Sopranos and the final of The Apprentice. Even though I know Tom won. It's Friday night, a girl's gotta get her kicks where she can find 'em.

Sunday, 24 July 2011


Somehow, it was inevitable. A troubled soul, who perhaps only found peace in her untimely death. The news of Amy Winehouse's death is not a surprise, but it is still shocking. So young, so talented, so raw, so real, so fragile, so lost. Gone too soon - as often the best of those rare birds are. We'd watched as her buxom, curvacious healthy body became ravaged and skinny; when the heart she wore on her sleeve was broken time and again; when her ballet pumps were smeared with blood and her eye make-up streaked her pale face, all the while no one could help. It was as if her path of self destruction was so great that there was never going to be another way out.

There was something so honest about her. From her caricature beehive and rouged lips, to her sailor tattoos and husky narf london accent, she was truly original. Unpredictable, edgy and straight talking she clearly knew her own mind - she was no one's plastic pop puppet. And what a voice. It soared and took our hearts with it. It took us back to an era of smokey bars, cigarette girls and jazz bands. She felt every word, poured soul into every line. Such potential, now lost. May she rest in peace, finally.


One of the only english speaking channels in our air conditioned room, is SKY news. Having a 7 month old who can't be outside in the searing sun, means we spend a lot of time in our room - in shifts, between catching some rays and dipping in the ocean. For the past 2 days Husband and I have watched the ever repeating news of the tragic events in Norway, unable to comprehend how such evil exists in this world. How a human being can look another in the eye and kill them, stone dead. An innocent, someone who is pleading for their life.

I am haunted by the images in my head conjured up from reading accounts by some of the young people who managed to survive the massacre on Utoya island. It is the stuff of horror films - terror we can only imagine: How one guy played dead by lying ontop of his dead friends as the gunman walked past - so close he could feel the warmth of the gun and hear his breathing. His ability to act so well saved his life I think of the poor kids running for their lives - their hideous dilemmas - do they stop to help the injured or save themselves? Try and swim to freedom or stay and hide, hoping not to be found. One survivor talked of texting her Mother and then her Mum called her back, sobbing. She was hiding, praying to be safe. Imagine being that parent, not knowing if your child had been found and killed or managed to escape? It doesn't bear thinking about. All those wasted lives - cut so cruelly short. Such a small, gentle country, steeped in uncomprehendable grief. All because of one freak and his twisted beliefs. Apparently Oslo is so quiet. The silence one of deep respect to those affected by this tragedy and one of utter confusion at how such an atrocity occured. I can't get my head around it at all. I guess nobody ever will.

Friday, 22 July 2011

Laying ghosts to rest

In the shadows of the swaying palm trees, under the roar of the ocean waves, behind the gaudy sweet cocktails and across the jagged coastline lies a secret. My feet have flip-flopped down the narrow zig zag pathways before, many years ago. Back then I wasn't married, in fact I was freshly engaged but with no ring yet as concrete proof of my intended nuptials. It was September 2003 and the last of my many journeys that long hot exhausting summer. I was a presenter of a travel show - a job most folk described as their 'dream.' It had become my nightmare.

Cyprus, Lanzarote, Spain, Florida, Amsterdam, Austria, Majorca, Jersey and Tunisia all lay in my wake and I had this one last trip to make and then, thankfully, I would be done. Contract expired, never to be renewed. I dreaded Crete. By then I was barely eating. Every morning I would wake with a thumping heart, palms sweaty with fear and a stomach in tight knots. I would force myself to eat an apple, drink some water and then begin my ritual of prayers - me, the unreligious soul - my attempt to get through the darkness that lay ahead. Grant me the serenity... Then I'd meet my co-presenter, or rather his ego would greet me first, and then the other crew members who would be with me for hours upon end in the unwilting heat.

It had all started so well - had been my 'dream job' too. But as the trips wore on my director's jokes became less funny, more pointed, more accusatory, not really jokes at all. Thinly veiled attempts to relieve his own stress, his own angst at being away from his young family - and it was I who was to weather this cruelty, time and time again. I was the outsider. Everyone else lived in Northern Ireland, had never left the place. I had. A long time before. I lived in London, had worked in TV there already, had experience, wasn't afraid. Ego boy was afraid, it was his first presenting job, so he masked this raging insecurity with the need to be the best, the funniest, the most important. Eventually you gave up trying to connect or share or relate, because if you'd have had twins, he would have had quads. It was tiring. Silence became my best friend. It was easier to hide away and let him lead, let him be the centre if attention he so wanted to be. On a sad little local tv show. He was easy to play in many respects - which makes me sound cruel, but I used his neediness to my advantage, making him feel he should do the longest travel shoots and biggest pieces to camera - why work harder when he could do it for you?

All the while I was ground down, until there was none of me left. I remember ringing a friend who had been in prison, for drunk driving, (she had suffered some cruel blows in life that led her down this road - she is now a lawyer and a brilliant one at that) to ask her how I could cope in my own prison of sorts. She said play a game. The game 'as if'. Act as if you are a presenter, and you will be. I tried it. It worked. In between cheery bouncy joyful pieces to camera in places like the Magic Kingdom, Florida, (the director was also the cameraman so I had to look into his lens and be professional, no matter that I was dying inside) I would race away and throw up violently behind the bushes reserved for the dirty smokers and myself. Smoking couldn't be seen in sunny Mickey land.

In Crete at a Gorge (the largest in Europe apparently) I was sick so violently with nerves that my button popped off my jeans. I plastered a smile on my face, braved the daily abuse, the questions as to why I didn't have an Irish passport, but a British one, the jokes about my 'posh school' and therefore my posh upbringing. They didn't know about my shared room with my Mother until I was 10, the outdoor toilet, the hand me down clothes, or the house my Mum finally bought in 1988 in the wrong part of town. My upside down childhood, my divorced and re-marrying parents, who never made it up the aisle again. They didn't know, they never asked. They didn't know me.

They put me in a box, labelled it and there I sat. The butt of humour? It wasn't humour - it was bullying. I had never experienced it before, nor have again - to that degree. I'd suffered an evil boss in my early years in TV - a neurotic witch 10 years older than me, with a pursed bitter mouth and cold blue eyes. She'd made my life hell, but at the end of every day I would log off, shut down my computer and tube it home to the sanctuary of my friends. (She apologised many years later - like it mattered by then). On a travel show, there is no sanctuary to run home to. You have to eat breakfast,lunch and dinner with your tormentors. There is no escape. I had signed that fucking contract and had to honour it, no matter what.

Crete was the last stop. It would end after those 7 days. I willed them to end. When they celebrated on the last night I toasted their glasses too, lost in my own private relief. Then I left early, ego boy ever helpful getting me a cab. We flew home and I barely spoke, dropping the smiley act, it was time to get my bags from the carousel and wave goodbye. Bar a few voice overs I was finished. So I thought. The experience haunted me for years. I still dream about it. I lost a stone in 4 weeks. I vomited every day out of fear and worry on the last 4 trips. I cried in the shower and hidden away in toilets. I rang my then boyfriend/fiance for support at all times of day and night. I felt so alone. Every day I counted the hours until it ended. Crete was the end.

I am back. To the same resort, but am staying in the secluded villas. The rest is the same. Memories flood back - oddly I have found joy amongst the hurt and anger. I remember para-sailing and looking down at my pink toenails, trying to forget how high up I was and then miraculously letting go of my fear and marvelling at the vast green ocean frothing below. I remember playing cards on the last day, enjoying the moments when ego boy would forget to be the big star, and remembered to be himself. The day we visited the empty leper colony - Spinalonga, and how it felt creepy and cold, even in the sweltering midday sun.

I am putting it to rest. It was a lifetime ago. I wonder how I oculd have made it easier, handled it better, or maybe had the courage to simply walk away, contract or not. But I survived it - for that is what it was, survival. Bullies are unhappy cowards who take their own issues out on you - they fear you, for you have all they want, or could never have. They resent your joy, your spirit. So they take it from you. Piece by piece. A sad white haired man made my life hell, but he has never been in it since that year.

Now it is time to forget he was ever in it at all.

Wednesday, 20 July 2011

Holiday - it would be so nice??

What do you think of when you think of a vacation? Sun, sand, a margarita or two.... a lazy day on the beach, sundowner beers, oceans of sex, cute boys in short shorts? Me too. What I got? Projectile vomit for 48 ours, blood dripping everywhere after a nasty razor accident and hurricanes in nappies, all in 38 degree heat. JOY!

So we packed furiously - I mean furiously - Husband and I rowed so badly that at one point I wasn't going AT ALL, thank you very much. We managed to stuff 10 days worth of baby food and nappies into a suitcase or 3, the steriliser was all set and off we went in the pissing rain. Just a cab, 2 train journies, a 4 hour flight and a 20 min cab journey and we'd be there. The longest hours of my life I tell you. Did Sproglette drink her lovely calpol and zonk out on the flight as I hoped? Did she heck. She just whinned and screamed and kicked up such a fuss I was waiting for us to be ejected out the emergency exit by 176 disgruntled passengers. We arrived - ahhh I thought - this is more like it, as I gazed at the large lobby replete with fountain and orchds. But we were at the wrong hotel. Fabulous - particularly after a hairy car ride with no child seat for a by now, apoplectic Sproglette.

Two trips in a mini car and we were at the correct and not quite as glitzy hotel. To our room - the size of a box and stiflingly warm. Air con on - full - 'that should solve it' said Husband. Cut to 4am Husband putting on a light to find his shoes to march to reception to complain about the unbearable heat in the room (a dodgy hairdryer on cool mode would have provided a colder breeze). By dawn none of us had slept - we were tired, grubby, grumpy and hungry. First at breakfast - and full of woe. Typical Brits abroad - glad we lived up to our tarnished reputation. We rang the holiday company as Husband kept announcing how we should 'just go home' and then a miracle - they said they would move us. Not only moving us, but upgrading us to the private villas area. This kind of thing NEVER happens to me. All those stories of flight upgrades are for me an urban myth. Even on our honeymoon we got nothing in the way of upgrades. I love the word 'upgrade' and am delighted that finally it has entered my life.

We tried to re-pack at speed and whilst searching for the laptop cable, I squealed in joy to think I had found it in husband's case - only to discove the elecric shock feeling was in fact my flesh being torn off - the tip of a finger in fact by Husband's uncovered razor. Blood abounded. Later he found shreds of dried bloodied skin amongst the blades. I behaved like a 5 year old. No, Sproglet is better than me, I behaved like a 2 year old. I think I may have even stamped a foot...

We waited in the heat for the removal man to appear on his jolly cart and eventually he did. We arrived at nirvana. A huge room, walk in shower, private pool and private beach area and utter peace. Blissed out Husband and I remembered to be nice to each other. All went well for oh, 2 hours - that is until Sproglette vommed up her breakfast. And lunch and every bottle that came her way. Blankets covered in sick, bed sheets, floors. Outfits came on for 2 minutes and then hastily left. She was racing through her summer wardrobe in minutes. My fingers still hurt, and bled. What fun we were having! Must buy postcards to tell everyone at home what a great time was being had... That night Sproglette howled through our attempts at dinner, aborted as soon as Sproglet had stuffed pasta down his gullet, and we drank ourselves to sleep on cheap red wine. Just then her bottom exploded. The stench was the most unholy smell to grace my nostrils since the stinkbomb craze of '81. And so the nappy severe weather warning continued. The spectrum of colours of yellow and green. After 2 days of this joy - vomit in restaurant, check. Vomit over buggy, check. Vomit over second round of sheets on Mummy and Daddy's bed, check - Husband and I felt a tad distraught. I had raging PMT and he had raging PUWST (putting up with sick tension). Apart from a joyous sundowner swim with Sproglet and a few stolen kisses with Husband in between his new cigarette habit, I hadn't had the most memorable time. Then in the dark air conditioned night we heard a small voice. 'I sick...' Oh yes, not to outdone, Sproglet had vommited everywhere. (This followed a sudden bottom expulsion when he was swimming earlier on - that had (thank the lord) stayed in his trunks, for me to fish out and dispose of in between the violent nappies). Life is just one long shit-fest over here in sunny Crete. Just as we finished cleaning up his sick, and bedded him in with us, we heard the mighty rumblings in Sproglettte's nappy once more.

Paper scissors stone - who would change the latest horror? Who cares, potato/potata -- your turn would come soon enough. Husband held her legs in the air as I tried not to breathe. We all eventually slumbered. Today Sproglet has vommed 5 times - pre and post breakkie. Sproglette has whinned and whinned but at last produced what could be considered as a normal nappy. She is currently sleeping, as is Husband. I have taken my sore fingers out of the salt pool and have managed an hour of uninterrupted snorkelling. Oh yes. It is a holiday, remember. Sproglet is in love with the kids club, which makes me slightly jealous of it - I want him back, vom and all thanks. Fingers crossed the bug will have passed. Unless of course it is waiting to hit husband and I. Mind you, losing a few pounds is never bad. Not sure I have enough summer clothes to weather the whole shebang or not. So, holidays. Great idea. All those cocktails and sex and late night dancing. In my dreams...

PS Update: Sproglet is all better. Sproglette has cut another tooth and is full diva form again. Husband and I are on tanning rota - 20 mins for you, ok 20 mins for me. We are getting a sitter for Fri night when we plan to sink martinis and try and engage in some non kid/sick related chat. The sun is shining, a cool breeze is blowing, the kids are happy and finally, so are we.

Friday, 15 July 2011

One last thing before I go...

How is it possible to have two children so different? The only thing Sproglet and Sproglette have in common is they both sleep until past 7am. Hurrah. That is were any similarity ends. Sproglet looks like his Dad (with a smidgen of my eyes thrown in) and is all me in personality: people pleaser, loves social occasions, talks non stop, likes to draw, loves books and climbing (I loved me a spot of climbing at Brimham Rocks when I was a nipper) and generally has a smiley disposition. When folk smile at him in the street - ever since he was a baby, he beamed back. On hols in Sardinia two years ago he announced 'chao' to anyone who crossed his path.

Sproglette however, isn't so, how shall we say - smiley. In fact she NEVER smiles, unless Sproglet is near, then she will giggle and laugh and be ultra cute. But in the street when people coo that she looks just like a doll, so petite with a rosebud mouth and big blue eyes, they coo and coo and nada. She just stares at them, sometimes with a frown as if to say 'that all you got?' She looks serious - always. She hates to be held by strangers, wants constant attention and has a fit if god forbid you leave the room to perhaps go for a wee for 2 minutes. She is grumpy, wants entertaining and can only sit through a movie for 5 seconds. Sproglet meanwhile went to see Ratatouille at 13 months and was transfixed. He doesn't even blink, he loves films so much. But the wee lady - nope. She likes Mickey Mouse god help us, and only his Michael Jackson tones can illicit a smile from her lips. So Micky and Sproglet and bananas. The only things she likes. A fussy eater - no jars or bought baby mush for her, oh no, only fresh blended veggies for the diva.

I cannot believe I have two kids that are so so different. Clearly Sproglette looks like me, but is her father in spirit - mildly grumpy, likes to sleep in, hates most people - but he likes his own company, which she has yet to do.

Feck only knows how I am supposed to get packed with this little menace hollering every time I turn my back to open the wardrobe. Sproglet, ever the helpful child - was counting out his pants today in preparation, and selecting his 'travelling' outfit. In short, I am terrified come Sproglette's teen years. two of her Dad in one house? Recipe for disaster.

Right, where did I put the Calpol?

Thursday, 14 July 2011

Happy Hols

Where is that festering old suncream, the lip salve with fluff on it hiding at the back of the bathroom cupboard, the anti mozzie wipes and the same sun hat I have worn since I presented a travel show in 2003? Yes, it is holiday time again. Except this time, we have Sproglette. Weaning as well. So in go the steriliser, the mini blender and enoygh rusks to sink a ship. Joy. If I ever get through packing, we are going here, to Crete:

Four of us - sharing a room or else the whole shebang would have been double and frankly, we have spent enough. Weirdly, I have been here before, on said travel show - but then I was in uber nice accomodation - with a pool outside my window and a fruit bowl re-stocked every day. But with four of us - it aint quite as grand. But it still is nice. Husband refused to go anywhere where 'I have to clean up after myself as well as the kids' - so we get half board. As long as their vodka tonic supply is doing fine, it'll be ok. Mind you, when the kids go down - what will Husband and I do - stare at the walls through the darkness? Take our chances with the mozzies on the balcony? Sproglet is beyond excited about swimming (arm band free) in the pool, Husband can't wait for the free pouring barmen to top up his little midday tipple as he relaxes reading (no doubt) yesterday's paper. Me? I can't wait for the sea - perhaps some snorkelling, and the wonderful feeling sipping a beer sundowner as your hot skin simmers after a day in the sun. Or watching freckles appear on our faces. Husband goes black. I go... blotchy. The sun waits for a moment until I am sitting with hand on my chin, or fingers on face and then strikes. A ha! Take that CM - now you will go home with weird red stripes across your fizzog and everyone will wonder if you and Husband were even on the same holiday.

So - to pack, to try and lug ourselves to the airport. 10 days and nights of sun (fingers crossed) and family fun. Will we all be speaking upon return? I'll letcha know. See you on the other side!

Friday, 8 July 2011

Having a word with myself

Ok, so I had a word with myself. I told myself to dry my friggin eyes and get on with it.

Then I put my ancient i pod thing on the speaker holder thing and blasted out Footloose. Yes, of Kenny Loggins. It, may I add, is not the only Kenny Loggins track on my i pod - I am not ashamed to admit this. Sproglet and I danced wildly in the dining room while Sproglette looked at us as if we were mad. She is waaay cooler than both of us and she is only 7 months old. It is as if she knows embarrassing moments already and refuses to take part. Dance over, dinner cooked, I threw on some jeans - actually, I easily got into THE jeans that have haunted me ever since I bought them. They are according to the woman in Gap 'a small size 10 - so really a 9' - a US 5. I used to fight to get into them with my muffin top hanging over the edge - and when I took them off big red welts would have indented into my stomach as if to say 'danger danger - do not wear jeans you don't really fit.' But last night they were comfy. This brought me more joy than Santa circa 1981. I have worked so so hard to get into those blue threads of hell. A natural runner, I am not. But proof is in the not-eating-the-pudding. How long they will fit me for, who knows? I'll enjot it while it lasts.

I then went out for a friend's pre wedding drinks. Too many glasses of red later I held court outside thinking I was when in fact I probably looked like a tragic mum who never gets out and had to make up for it and then wants to let the world know she 'used to have an exciting life.' I think I may have even said 'yes, I used to work in television you know.' TRAGIC. But hey, I had fun. I let my hair right down. The woman who is getting hitched is a nanny and she told all that my Husband is a DD. I had no idea what this means - it is in fact 'Dishy Dad.' I can't bring myself to tell him the nannies of the neighbourhood have discussed him and categorised him in the looks department. His smugness would kill me.

So. I am fine. This morning Sproglette woke at 7:30 and we had a massive cuddleathon with Sproglet and I kissed their soft warm necks and smelt their sweet smell and felt utterly content. Hungover and weary, but also content. Things will work out. My truck load of chicken may well arrive when I win the Euromillions 160 million this weekend. Then I can throw chicken out to everyone. The weekend is packed with fun stuff including a trip to flicks to see Bridesmaids, high tea/baby shower and a train journey alone - something I haven't done in 5 years. I've 200 capsules for my Nespresso machine, the sun is trying to shine and it is Friday. Life aint bad at all.

Thursday, 7 July 2011

Haven't we been here before??

I feel like the party is ending. Various Mums that I have been hanging with are all ambling off maternity leave and dipping their toes back into the buzzing world of work. Most are mightily relieved - they can be fab Mums between 7- 8:30am, 6:30 - 8:30pm and at weekends. The rest of the time they can converse with adults, wee in peace, make tea, feel challenged, make some cash and generally have some fun. Sure, they can feel guilty and feel like they have endless lists that never get ticked off and the stress of trying to run a home, make it to nursery on time etc but in general, they are returning to part of them that makes them who they are. No more looking at the clock realising it is only 9:35 AM and it feels like you have been up for half a day already. No more slushing up mashed yuk and endless wiping of tables, bottoms, noses, floors, any available surface. No more idle mind numbing conversation with a 'nice but dull' mother to fill the waking hours...

Do I envy them? What do you think? Husband and I have been a bit snippy of late. He peppers his conversation with the phrase 'I fund your lifestyle' which makes me want to headbutt him. What lifestyle? All my boozy lunches and shopathons? I think not. Problem is - for me to go back to work (having met up with my script ed gals a while back and discussed 2 of their new jobs) would mean somehow getting in to London every day and then working crazy hours (possibly on sets of dramas) which is impossible with Husband's job and childcare where we live. Nannies are insanely expensive and our house isn't big enough for an au pair - so we have no idea who would mind the kids (pre and post school for one) as nurseries shut at 6pm on the dot - and woe betide anyone who shows up after that time. Hello social services, kid on the doorstep...

Our marriage aint in the best of health when I try and work full time and DO IT ALL. I just have to read over this here blog to see the mistakes of the past - the ones that led us to Relate. The sad thing is I seem to be going on the same merry go round - leave my script ed job, have no idea what to do that will work with childcare, go back to script ed job, leave script ed job, have another child just to complicate things more, still worry about what to do to that will work with childcare...

I apologise. I feel a tad depressed today. Sproglet vomited his guts up last night - after a bad stomach episode as well - and thus is off school today. Naturally he was up at 5:50am - starving. It is pouring. Joy. All the Mums I know are pretty much at work, or on hols. Somehow they have managed to get careers that allow them the luxury of part time work OR the funds to fund a nanny. Where did I go wrong? I'm feeling a groundhog day coming on. Feed kids. Wash bottles. Empty dishwasher. Mush food for baby for lunch. Fold washing. Do washing. Tidy. Tidy. Tidy. Good god there has to be more to life than this? Do other Mums not get so bored they want to run out n front of traffic just to feel alive?? I love my daughter - she is the cutest thing alive, but she is also fairly high maintenance - wanting entertained every minute. Not unlike her Mother you might say. True.

I am off now to a boxing class for the first time in my life where I will take out all my confusion, frustration and aggression on some poor partner. On Sunday I go away alone for 3 nights, to have some space, some time to try and work out what the fuck to do. I feel raging guilt and fear already about leaving the kids with their Dad - wonder how I will cope with missing them so madly. The other half of me wonders if in fact I may decide never to come back.

Not really. Of course I will come back. To groundhog day, to occasional bouts of loneliness and to my childrens' amazing smiles.