So I turn *whispers* 37 tomorrow. Normally I tend to begin my birthday celebrations a week before the actual event and string out as many cake infused/ cocktail drenched activities with as many friends as possible.
But this year I'm a bit mehhh about the whole thing. I guess the day I left my script editing job was filled with cards and cake and presents, plus Sproglet seems to go to a party weekly - so I'm kinda birthday'd out. Husband is taking me to Nobu to feast upon some great sushi in the evening and has been warned I'm expecting cards in the morning from him and Sproglet when I wake up. I may pop to the cinema to see 'Whip It' as I'm a sucker for Drew Barrymore and anything to do with a 'coming of age' movie. I'm hoping for a writing breakthrough (had a peek a fellow writer's first novel today and some others for inspiration and felt like 'why am I even bothering to attempt this?') and maybe a take-away coffee in the morning. And y'know what? That sounds perfect to me.
Since I've left work I've had more time to mull over stuff and lately I've been dwelling on luck - and why some folk have it in spades and others seem to never get a break. I once read a book called 'How to be lucky.' I tell you that the fecker that wrote it certainly was - the whole book boiled down to one simple line 'to be lucky, think lucky.' He managed to inflate it into a book and sell a ridiculous amount of copies. Thing is, I've seen some majorly positive folk - glass is brimming over, let alone half full - go through some really awful life changing events recently. People who deserve nothing but unabated happiness but have had to endure all kinds of woe. I won't betray my friendships by giving any examples here, but they have made me wonder why life can sometimes be so unfair.
So... without coming over all self-help book like, I've been reminding myself every day to be grateful for what I've got - rather than dwelling on what I don't have. So tomorrow, when Husband scrawls a card just as I'm getting up and I hear him call Sproglet to do the same, and when he apologises for not having had time to get me a cake and then showers about 5 minutes before we're due at the restaurant and when the day passes in a fairly similar chore-laden way to any other - it'll suit me just fine.
Cheers!
Tuesday, 13 April 2010
Vote - go on!!
If you fancy nominating me or any other fantabulous bloggers in the UK for a blogging award - please go to this site and do so accordingly:
http://www.the-mads.com/nominate.htm
I thank you lovely readers. Sorry for my shameless plugging.
x
http://www.the-mads.com/nominate.htm
I thank you lovely readers. Sorry for my shameless plugging.
x
Sunday, 11 April 2010
Could I be?
It was a Thursday - a rip roaringly sunny Thursday. One of those days when only good things happen. The night before one of my oldest friends and her family had arrived to stay for a few nights. They'd risen early and disappeared into London for a day of sightseeing, with all of us planning to go to the zoo on Friday. Sproglet could barely contain his joy at having two big boys to idolise - he practically didn't say two words to me the whole time Noah (8)and Sam (5) were here. Why talk to boring Mummy when there are so many other more interesting options?
I'd finished the massive clear out cull. It was day 29 of my cycle. Period due. Sore chest? Check. Dull swollen stomach feeling? Nope. Wanting to kill Husband and tear out his eyes to fashion into earrings? Nope. Hmmm... It had been month 1 of trying for baby no 2. Could it have happened that quickly? It did with Sproglet, but really? I know I'd peed on sticks and whooped when the smiley face had signalled all systems GO GO GO! But I wasn't convinced. I nipped to the shops and bought a pack of cheapie tests.
Did the obligatory weeing and waited. Nothing. 3 mins passed and then - a line! A faint pink line. But 3 mins had passed. So... what the hell does that mean? Quick google search revealed that it could just be a fake sign - through 'evaporation.' So - I did the whole process again an hour later. Book was was forgotten in my quest to know for sure. I rang Husband. I could be pregnant. But maybe not. 'Call me when you know for sure.' I could tell he was shaking his head at me.
Second test - oh - hold on. A pink line again. At two mins, but even more faint. Must have been about two mins, or was it longer? Is it evaporation again? No it must be right. Two sticks - two pink lines. Still I wasn't convinced.
After I picked up Sproglet from nursery I bribed him into coming to Waitrose with me and after purchasing his Ben 10 magazine, I bought a digital-no-messing-about-will-tell-you-in-no-uncertain-terms-in-black-and-white pregnancy test that cost a small fortune. By this stage I barely had enough pee left to take the damn test. As Sproglet splashed about in the bath the sign flashed up less than 30seconds in: PREGNANT!
When the flashing finished it stated I was 1-2 weeks preggers. Early days. I was thrilled. I couldn't resist sharing it with my buddy when she got back on a high from her day of touring - having met friendly folk along the way, yes, even in London.
So now I have a secret. One I can't share for another 8 weeks (fingers crossed that all goes well). I'm excited, nervous, thrilled and weeing for Britain already.
It was a sunny Thursday, when only good things happen. And they did.
I'd finished the massive clear out cull. It was day 29 of my cycle. Period due. Sore chest? Check. Dull swollen stomach feeling? Nope. Wanting to kill Husband and tear out his eyes to fashion into earrings? Nope. Hmmm... It had been month 1 of trying for baby no 2. Could it have happened that quickly? It did with Sproglet, but really? I know I'd peed on sticks and whooped when the smiley face had signalled all systems GO GO GO! But I wasn't convinced. I nipped to the shops and bought a pack of cheapie tests.
Did the obligatory weeing and waited. Nothing. 3 mins passed and then - a line! A faint pink line. But 3 mins had passed. So... what the hell does that mean? Quick google search revealed that it could just be a fake sign - through 'evaporation.' So - I did the whole process again an hour later. Book was was forgotten in my quest to know for sure. I rang Husband. I could be pregnant. But maybe not. 'Call me when you know for sure.' I could tell he was shaking his head at me.
Second test - oh - hold on. A pink line again. At two mins, but even more faint. Must have been about two mins, or was it longer? Is it evaporation again? No it must be right. Two sticks - two pink lines. Still I wasn't convinced.
After I picked up Sproglet from nursery I bribed him into coming to Waitrose with me and after purchasing his Ben 10 magazine, I bought a digital-no-messing-about-will-tell-you-in-no-uncertain-terms-in-black-and-white pregnancy test that cost a small fortune. By this stage I barely had enough pee left to take the damn test. As Sproglet splashed about in the bath the sign flashed up less than 30seconds in: PREGNANT!
When the flashing finished it stated I was 1-2 weeks preggers. Early days. I was thrilled. I couldn't resist sharing it with my buddy when she got back on a high from her day of touring - having met friendly folk along the way, yes, even in London.
So now I have a secret. One I can't share for another 8 weeks (fingers crossed that all goes well). I'm excited, nervous, thrilled and weeing for Britain already.
It was a sunny Thursday, when only good things happen. And they did.
Wednesday, 7 April 2010
Spring clean madness
Shedding is my new addiction. I can't stop. Everywhere I look there is something to be taken apart, de-cluttered and re-ordered. I am like a woman possessed and it feels amazing. For two years I have been working my guts out, with every second away from work devoted to Sproglet, seeing friends, trying to run a home - all the usual. So I have put off unpacking the last ever box underneath the basement stairs from our move. Yes, the move 2 years ago - almost.
But with no full time job - there are no excuses - the time has come for the de-junk. Drawers I haven't opened in the spare room since we put them there have been emptied and the contents pretty much binned. Many spiders are shaking their tiny little fists - all 8 of 'em at me as I have upended their snuggly homes in my utility room. 6 bags of junk went to the skip yesterday. More to follow today. Sentiment has all but gone as I ruthlessly chuck everything - including Sproglet's first b'day cards. I mean why keep them? His first pair of shoes yes, but cards? All my files upon files of me struggling to get presenting work - lists of folk who barely returned calls and their addresses (in the days pre email!) old coats, magazines, notebooks (how many notebooks can one person have??)all dumped. Feels liberating.
Once this streamlining has been achieved I can jump into book land. Clean house, clear mind and all that. Gotta run - laundry cupboard is calling me. Who knew life without work could still be rewarding?!
But with no full time job - there are no excuses - the time has come for the de-junk. Drawers I haven't opened in the spare room since we put them there have been emptied and the contents pretty much binned. Many spiders are shaking their tiny little fists - all 8 of 'em at me as I have upended their snuggly homes in my utility room. 6 bags of junk went to the skip yesterday. More to follow today. Sentiment has all but gone as I ruthlessly chuck everything - including Sproglet's first b'day cards. I mean why keep them? His first pair of shoes yes, but cards? All my files upon files of me struggling to get presenting work - lists of folk who barely returned calls and their addresses (in the days pre email!) old coats, magazines, notebooks (how many notebooks can one person have??)all dumped. Feels liberating.
Once this streamlining has been achieved I can jump into book land. Clean house, clear mind and all that. Gotta run - laundry cupboard is calling me. Who knew life without work could still be rewarding?!
Sunday, 4 April 2010
Hung up
So my Dad hung up on me this morning. In his usual childish manner he terminated a conversation because he couldn't express how he was really feeling. Same old same old.
I haven't really written about my relationship with my Father on my blog - I don't know why. Perhaps because it would involve me wading through such murky muddy waters that I hope to have long crossed and made my peace with.
Regular readers might remember this post: http://crummymummywhodrinks.blogspot.com/2009/11/first-time.html (wish I could do that thing where I just say 'this post' and it comes up all highlighted and you just click on it and away you go - but I am technologically brain dead - so any help on this - WELCOMED) about when I married my Husband for the first time... When I blogged about this event - for the second time -- it occurred to me that this news might somehow filter back to my Father, and so decided it was high time I told him the truth.
So... On Xmas evening, when we had all had one drink too many and were in fine spirits, I admitted to my Dad that Husband and I had indeed married twice. Once to stay together and once for real. He seemed to take it well - understanding our issues and why we trod the many wedding'd path.
Or so I thought...
My Mother called me this morning and having had an unfortunate conversation with my Dad earlier in the week - (they are divorced, she only rang him to find out the phone number to the local chopped log seller and no, that isn't a euphemism) she explained that he felt 'conned by me' and has decided to write me out of his will. Born of a materialistic family, of an upper class Mother and working class Father, (who educated himself into a higher class) my Dad has long believed that money holds the greatest power, ergo the greatest wound to inflict. Money, however, whilst it makes life sure as hell a lot easier - has never motivated me to do anything in my life, so being left out of his will doesn't phase me at all - but the thought that he felt conned by me did.
I immediately called him. Upon being challenged, he used the classic cliche: 'I have a right to my own opinion' - sure, but about what? I explained in a calm steady voice that me and Aussie boy had very little choice but to get hitched back in 2002 - yep, it has been a while - with his expiring visa and all... That we told NO ONE, that we pretended it never happened as we viewed it as simply a legality in getting to stay together on the same soil and then we got married full and proper and everything - for our friends and family and for us - to embrace and enjoy. I wondered if deep down my Dad was just pissed that he had spent money on feeding my guests (80 of them) on my wedding day - so offered him his cash back.
Back in 2004 he had initially told me he wouldn't attend my wedding if I invited my Mum's ex boyfriend to it (the man who had taken more interest in me than either of my biological parents and who I lived with at weekends from the age of 14 - 21). Then he told me he wouldn't make a speech - even as Father of the bride, and that he would leave early. It wasn't his 'thing.' I remember my angry tears as I raged at Husband-to-be that all I wanted was a 'normal' day - just one day in my life where my warring families would put aside their differences and instead simply focus on me. This after all, is the same man who didn't attend my Uni graduation as 'it cost too much for a flight.' (From Belfast to London, not fucking LA to NZ).
His catalogue of disappointing me goes so far back it would take ten years to list it - but I am the only bride I know who on her wedding day expected to pay for it all - until after the meal when I was wandering between the tables chatting to all my beloved guests, and my Dad sauntered up to me and proclaimed that he would in fact pay for the food and drink. Finally he had offered to contribute. On the actual wedding day - half way through it in fact. Which is lovely - having refused to be in a single photo with my Mother and I - yes, but oh my god, it was so hard planning a wedding and trying to achieve my little vision of the day, when I had no idea if he would help out or even attend.
And now - now that I have admitted to him that Husband I did the deed twice and are still together - 9 years on, with a beautiful child - he has an issue!!! Well I have an issue: that I have lived in London for 19 years and in all that time he has never once visited me. From Belfast to London is an hour long flight - and we live 20 mins from the airport. That true enough, we used to live in a flat too small really to play hosts to my Dad and step-Mum - but we have moved - 2 years ago almost - to a proper house, and still he has never once visited Sproglet - yet he has had my step-sister's two kids to stay EVERY fucking weekend since they were born. They are 14 and 9. I could deal with his lacklustre attempts to be in my life; his negligence coupled ironically with the egotistical need to be the 'big man' in my eyes; but I cannot tolerate it in my son's life. You are either in, or you are out.
My childhood is thankfully long gone - I have moved on. But in one swift phone call I can be back there. Bullied by a man who picks and chooses his responsibilities and flits in and out of my life like a butterfly on speed and all the while expects me to hold him in the greatest esteem. I love him. I really do. Which is why after all this time he still can hurt, he can still bruise.
So he hung up. Last time we fought on the phone was when I had gathered him and my Mother together to talk about my wedding plans, again, way back at the start of 2004 - each not knowing the other one would be there. My Mum took it in good grace - my Dad went nuts. He rang me that night claiming I had set him up. I told him to grow up. And he hung up.
He feels conned. Well hell, that makes two of us.
I haven't really written about my relationship with my Father on my blog - I don't know why. Perhaps because it would involve me wading through such murky muddy waters that I hope to have long crossed and made my peace with.
Regular readers might remember this post: http://crummymummywhodrinks.blogspot.com/2009/11/first-time.html (wish I could do that thing where I just say 'this post' and it comes up all highlighted and you just click on it and away you go - but I am technologically brain dead - so any help on this - WELCOMED) about when I married my Husband for the first time... When I blogged about this event - for the second time -- it occurred to me that this news might somehow filter back to my Father, and so decided it was high time I told him the truth.
So... On Xmas evening, when we had all had one drink too many and were in fine spirits, I admitted to my Dad that Husband and I had indeed married twice. Once to stay together and once for real. He seemed to take it well - understanding our issues and why we trod the many wedding'd path.
Or so I thought...
My Mother called me this morning and having had an unfortunate conversation with my Dad earlier in the week - (they are divorced, she only rang him to find out the phone number to the local chopped log seller and no, that isn't a euphemism) she explained that he felt 'conned by me' and has decided to write me out of his will. Born of a materialistic family, of an upper class Mother and working class Father, (who educated himself into a higher class) my Dad has long believed that money holds the greatest power, ergo the greatest wound to inflict. Money, however, whilst it makes life sure as hell a lot easier - has never motivated me to do anything in my life, so being left out of his will doesn't phase me at all - but the thought that he felt conned by me did.
I immediately called him. Upon being challenged, he used the classic cliche: 'I have a right to my own opinion' - sure, but about what? I explained in a calm steady voice that me and Aussie boy had very little choice but to get hitched back in 2002 - yep, it has been a while - with his expiring visa and all... That we told NO ONE, that we pretended it never happened as we viewed it as simply a legality in getting to stay together on the same soil and then we got married full and proper and everything - for our friends and family and for us - to embrace and enjoy. I wondered if deep down my Dad was just pissed that he had spent money on feeding my guests (80 of them) on my wedding day - so offered him his cash back.
Back in 2004 he had initially told me he wouldn't attend my wedding if I invited my Mum's ex boyfriend to it (the man who had taken more interest in me than either of my biological parents and who I lived with at weekends from the age of 14 - 21). Then he told me he wouldn't make a speech - even as Father of the bride, and that he would leave early. It wasn't his 'thing.' I remember my angry tears as I raged at Husband-to-be that all I wanted was a 'normal' day - just one day in my life where my warring families would put aside their differences and instead simply focus on me. This after all, is the same man who didn't attend my Uni graduation as 'it cost too much for a flight.' (From Belfast to London, not fucking LA to NZ).
His catalogue of disappointing me goes so far back it would take ten years to list it - but I am the only bride I know who on her wedding day expected to pay for it all - until after the meal when I was wandering between the tables chatting to all my beloved guests, and my Dad sauntered up to me and proclaimed that he would in fact pay for the food and drink. Finally he had offered to contribute. On the actual wedding day - half way through it in fact. Which is lovely - having refused to be in a single photo with my Mother and I - yes, but oh my god, it was so hard planning a wedding and trying to achieve my little vision of the day, when I had no idea if he would help out or even attend.
And now - now that I have admitted to him that Husband I did the deed twice and are still together - 9 years on, with a beautiful child - he has an issue!!! Well I have an issue: that I have lived in London for 19 years and in all that time he has never once visited me. From Belfast to London is an hour long flight - and we live 20 mins from the airport. That true enough, we used to live in a flat too small really to play hosts to my Dad and step-Mum - but we have moved - 2 years ago almost - to a proper house, and still he has never once visited Sproglet - yet he has had my step-sister's two kids to stay EVERY fucking weekend since they were born. They are 14 and 9. I could deal with his lacklustre attempts to be in my life; his negligence coupled ironically with the egotistical need to be the 'big man' in my eyes; but I cannot tolerate it in my son's life. You are either in, or you are out.
My childhood is thankfully long gone - I have moved on. But in one swift phone call I can be back there. Bullied by a man who picks and chooses his responsibilities and flits in and out of my life like a butterfly on speed and all the while expects me to hold him in the greatest esteem. I love him. I really do. Which is why after all this time he still can hurt, he can still bruise.
So he hung up. Last time we fought on the phone was when I had gathered him and my Mother together to talk about my wedding plans, again, way back at the start of 2004 - each not knowing the other one would be there. My Mum took it in good grace - my Dad went nuts. He rang me that night claiming I had set him up. I told him to grow up. And he hung up.
He feels conned. Well hell, that makes two of us.
Tuesday, 30 March 2010
The Easter story according to Sproglet
Sproglet in the car yesterday: 'Mummy if you died it would not be very nice.'
CM : 'Mummy isn't going to die honey.'
Sproglet: 'No No No. If you die. People are cross. Your Mummy and Daddy are cross.'
CM: 'Yes..... but why are we talking about dying?'
Sproglet: 'It is ok Mummy. Because the rock is rolled away.'
CM: 'A huh. The rock.'
Sproglet: 'Yes and then you get up again. You are not deaded.'
CM: 'Did you hear the Easter story today? The one about Jesus?'
Sproget; 'Yes. Jesus, he was cross.'
CM: 'On the cross maybe?'
Sproglet: 'Yes. His Mummy cried. Can I have an easter egg?'
CM : 'Mummy isn't going to die honey.'
Sproglet: 'No No No. If you die. People are cross. Your Mummy and Daddy are cross.'
CM: 'Yes..... but why are we talking about dying?'
Sproglet: 'It is ok Mummy. Because the rock is rolled away.'
CM: 'A huh. The rock.'
Sproglet: 'Yes and then you get up again. You are not deaded.'
CM: 'Did you hear the Easter story today? The one about Jesus?'
Sproget; 'Yes. Jesus, he was cross.'
CM: 'On the cross maybe?'
Sproglet: 'Yes. His Mummy cried. Can I have an easter egg?'
Sunday, 28 March 2010
Get it off my chest
Well that didn't last long on the non blogging front... but I feel that if I don't get this post off my chest it is going to well up within me and choke me to death.
So I left work...
My last day was completely surreal. I thought I'd done my mourning and felt surprisingly excited - like it was a birthday that you actually want to celebrate - filled with cake and cards and people forced to be nice to you. I arrived at my beautifully decorated desk (bless you Caroline) - covered in glitter and a banner and the obligatory helium balloon. Immediately I welled up and at that point I knew I wasn't gonna get through the day with dry eyes. But the day wasn't all frolics - oh no, there were scripts at second draft to turn round - so there sadly was pesky work to do before the fun stuff could begin.
Post lunch I felt that sinking feeling - of having tonnes of scripts to read - then I remembered 'you don't, you're leaving.' I promptly tossed them all into the confidential bin and felt like a naughty teenager avoiding her homework. I'd already cleared my desk, unpinned Sproglet drawings and photos, packed away the scripts that I'd slaved over and ultimately loved. 2 years fitted into one small bag.
I've never left a job before with such mixed emotions - but there again, I've never left a job in such weird circumstances. My bosses like me, are happy with my work, I am a committed team member, get on with all the writers, am passionate about the show - and yet, I have to leave. I'm not disappearing under a cloud having been fired, I'm not jumping ship racing towards a great promotion elsewhere - I simply have to go due to some ridiculous bureaucracy that makes no sense. I don't know how to process my reaction to such an ousting.
When we gathered for an amazing coffee cake (I'd persuaded two great bakers in the office to have a 'bake off' - cunning, I know) our head script ed Pete nervously made an emotional speech and the tears that had threatened to spill all day came pouring down. I felt so fucking cheated at leaving my team - my friends - that I simply couldn't find the words to tell them how much they have meant to me over the past two years. They are an amazing, supportive, warm, funny, slightly loopy bunch of people - who I miss already.
They gave me great gifts - a necklace that says 'may all your wildest dreams come true' and a framed signed script cover of my best and most watched episode. I tried to get out a speech - and muttered something about 'why am I crying, I'm not even pre-menstrual?' infront of my new boss - now ex-boss - barely managing to cough out a few emotional words.
All that was left to do was of course... karaoke. We hit a dodgy chinese restaurant in London's Soho - with our own private room, lined with chairs and the all important karaoke machine. Story ed Alex took charge and we were off! I began by murdering 'son of a preacher man' took a detour in duet land with Kylie and Jason's 'hit' 'Especially for you' (with one of my favourite writers who clearly had done it before) and ended up predictably sobbing with all my team as we wailed out 'Goodbye' by the Spice girls. The night was a triumph. One that could remain in our rose tinted memory as a long rollercoster of beautiful song, if it were not for the fact that Caroline videoed/photographed the whole thing. Dear god, they won't be pretty.
Husband came along - if only to pour me into a cab at the end of the night - which he duly did, as I drunkenly wept on his shoulder. The next day he told me he had never known me to work with such a nice bunch of people - he normally hates those kind of events, but said he'd had a great time.
The fog of a spectacular hangover and the fact I had to teach a class how to be presenters the following morning - kept my emotions in check yesterday. But today everything has come tumbling out and the only way I can describe how I feel is bereft. They'll all troop into work tomorrow and hold a tea filled post mortem on Friday night - and I won't be there. My work family will continue to champion and chastise each other without me. It feels like there is a party going on that I once was invited to and now my name isn't on the sodding list.
My funds are dwindling, TV drama feels like it is imploding (with ITV's 'The Bill axed on Fri after 27 years), I have no idea how I will ever get a job in this fecking industry ever again. No matter how much we hate it - our jobs help define us; give us a reason to get up, inspire and challenge us and give us a golden glow when things for once go right. And I no longer have one.
No cake, no warming cups of tea or even cuddles with Sproglet is abating this pit of sadness in my tummy. I am sure it will pass. But to all down Walford way - my life won't be the same without you.
So I left work...
My last day was completely surreal. I thought I'd done my mourning and felt surprisingly excited - like it was a birthday that you actually want to celebrate - filled with cake and cards and people forced to be nice to you. I arrived at my beautifully decorated desk (bless you Caroline) - covered in glitter and a banner and the obligatory helium balloon. Immediately I welled up and at that point I knew I wasn't gonna get through the day with dry eyes. But the day wasn't all frolics - oh no, there were scripts at second draft to turn round - so there sadly was pesky work to do before the fun stuff could begin.
Post lunch I felt that sinking feeling - of having tonnes of scripts to read - then I remembered 'you don't, you're leaving.' I promptly tossed them all into the confidential bin and felt like a naughty teenager avoiding her homework. I'd already cleared my desk, unpinned Sproglet drawings and photos, packed away the scripts that I'd slaved over and ultimately loved. 2 years fitted into one small bag.
I've never left a job before with such mixed emotions - but there again, I've never left a job in such weird circumstances. My bosses like me, are happy with my work, I am a committed team member, get on with all the writers, am passionate about the show - and yet, I have to leave. I'm not disappearing under a cloud having been fired, I'm not jumping ship racing towards a great promotion elsewhere - I simply have to go due to some ridiculous bureaucracy that makes no sense. I don't know how to process my reaction to such an ousting.
When we gathered for an amazing coffee cake (I'd persuaded two great bakers in the office to have a 'bake off' - cunning, I know) our head script ed Pete nervously made an emotional speech and the tears that had threatened to spill all day came pouring down. I felt so fucking cheated at leaving my team - my friends - that I simply couldn't find the words to tell them how much they have meant to me over the past two years. They are an amazing, supportive, warm, funny, slightly loopy bunch of people - who I miss already.
They gave me great gifts - a necklace that says 'may all your wildest dreams come true' and a framed signed script cover of my best and most watched episode. I tried to get out a speech - and muttered something about 'why am I crying, I'm not even pre-menstrual?' infront of my new boss - now ex-boss - barely managing to cough out a few emotional words.
All that was left to do was of course... karaoke. We hit a dodgy chinese restaurant in London's Soho - with our own private room, lined with chairs and the all important karaoke machine. Story ed Alex took charge and we were off! I began by murdering 'son of a preacher man' took a detour in duet land with Kylie and Jason's 'hit' 'Especially for you' (with one of my favourite writers who clearly had done it before) and ended up predictably sobbing with all my team as we wailed out 'Goodbye' by the Spice girls. The night was a triumph. One that could remain in our rose tinted memory as a long rollercoster of beautiful song, if it were not for the fact that Caroline videoed/photographed the whole thing. Dear god, they won't be pretty.
Husband came along - if only to pour me into a cab at the end of the night - which he duly did, as I drunkenly wept on his shoulder. The next day he told me he had never known me to work with such a nice bunch of people - he normally hates those kind of events, but said he'd had a great time.
The fog of a spectacular hangover and the fact I had to teach a class how to be presenters the following morning - kept my emotions in check yesterday. But today everything has come tumbling out and the only way I can describe how I feel is bereft. They'll all troop into work tomorrow and hold a tea filled post mortem on Friday night - and I won't be there. My work family will continue to champion and chastise each other without me. It feels like there is a party going on that I once was invited to and now my name isn't on the sodding list.
My funds are dwindling, TV drama feels like it is imploding (with ITV's 'The Bill axed on Fri after 27 years), I have no idea how I will ever get a job in this fecking industry ever again. No matter how much we hate it - our jobs help define us; give us a reason to get up, inspire and challenge us and give us a golden glow when things for once go right. And I no longer have one.
No cake, no warming cups of tea or even cuddles with Sproglet is abating this pit of sadness in my tummy. I am sure it will pass. But to all down Walford way - my life won't be the same without you.
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