Egg timers and suchlike

So, it’s been a while, guys, hasn’t it? Sorry.

Babe came down with foot and mouth when we got back from holiday. Well, the nurse at NHS direct said it wasn’t actually, but the spots on his mouth, soles and palms were exactly like the ones I found on the web (so to speak), and he really wasn’t very well. So as far as I’m concerned, that’s what he had – especially as I know there have been one or two outbreaks at nursery recently. Nice.

I am writing this against the clock, as Other Half has taken Babe off while I cook the tea, to find me a hot water bottle. God knows how I lost the two I had, but I have, and I am freezing. In fact I have been ill and shivery for nearly a fortnight, and going to bed very early every night. Hence the absence of blogging. Now Other Half is feeling ill and acting as though he’s on death’s door, despite absence of temperature and ability to go to gym for ‘medicinal sauna’ and watch TV ‘til the early hours each night.

Why are most men so utterly crap when they’re ill? It’s like they’re goading you into telling them they are annoying, useless idiots so that they can slink off with the hump and end up watching TV in bed. Grrrrrrr, I don’t know. (Any men reading who feel annoyed by this, please search deep into your innermost beings and then tell me, hand on heart, that it’s not true.)

Now Babe is unwell again too. It’s all go. Incidentally, my sister gave me a ‘bloggers egg-timer’ for my birthday, to help encourage me to write more often and limit how long I spend on it.

So, what of import do I have to share with you? Precious little actually. I have, as usual, been questioning my life’s path and the obvious mistakes I have made. I’ve been having quite a lot of anxiety dreams about work, including one particularly nasty one in which I was back at Uni – in Italy, for some reason, thinking I should jack it all in and start afresh, studying law as my mum had wanted me to. I woke with an exhausted groan, wondering where and how I should start, before I realised that I am a wife and mother with Responsibilities, and a career path that has not been without direction if not hugely successful.

A very dear friend and honorary sister (we both consider ourselves honoured) has moved from working as a volunteer supervised by me, to writing GB’s answers for PM’s question time. So, suffice to say that news of this has urged me to once again consider what I am doing with my skills and talents, and wonder in what new and exciting direction I and my appendages could move.

The construction industry has frozen up and Other Half has not worked since we got back from holiday. He can’t find anything at all, and to say we are stressed about money would be an understatement. Given the fact that I feel nothing short of a red hot poker is going to get me making a career move, that some unhappy decisions are making me feel unhappy at work, the fact that Other Half is without work, and the fact that I am so unbelievably bloody cold, I am wondering if we should rent out our house and move to Greece, where it’s easier to live in poverty and one can at least stay warm. Although I fear that if I left the UK job market, I wouldn’t know how to return to it. There are plenty of people half my age at work who could do my job much better than I can. Motherhood has robbed me of so much more grey matter than I care to admit.

I am in the meantime, considering becoming one of those people who lead humanist funerals, on the advice of another dear friend whose opinions I admire and respect. Incidentally, these references to ‘dear’ friends must be quite annoying, but I feel that in these days of meaningless Facebook friendships, I need to draw some distinctions in the terminology I’m using.

So, while you all smile at the thought, or groan, or whatever, I am going to google that very thing, for more info, before the men in my life (god, I wish there were a few more) return.