On having "sold your soul to Satan".

This is a feeling I get quite a lot.

I've worked hard to achieve certain things, only to discover that those things are ultimately a bit meaningless.  Swapping terrible business platitudes (that I was poor at doing anyway - I've wrestled the "Haway man, you *pause* are *pause* talking *pause* *emphasis* SHITE!" monster more often than I can count) is something I'm bad at.

I've offended a few people along the way, let's be honest. And I'm pretty diplomatic.

I have a kid now, and while I relish the head space of going to work, I also miss the little blighter so much at times that it hurts. I'm also aware that having structure through having a reasonably challenging job keeps me sharp, focused, and most importantly, not depressed which is a gift that means at the end of the day that I'm being as good a parent as I can be. So what...I don't spend 24/7 with him, but I don't take him for granted either, and have the patience when it counts.

But...that's the deal that you make with fate to a certain degree. We have to make a deal with the devil to ensure that we can keep ourselves fed and watered, with a something that resembles a roof over our heads. If you can do that solely by doing the things you love the most, that's brilliant, but for the vast majority of us that isn't the case, and we're not going to be rescued. We aren't going to win the lottery, we aren't going to invent something awesome and we probably aren't secretly the heir of Potloadsofcashrutania either.

There is nothing wrong with making a living, but you've got to assert where that stops and your *actual* life starts. The one where you get enough sleep, the one where you have enough energy to be loving towards those that you love, where you can exercise, where you can eat, drink and be merry and not feel like someone has their foot on the back of your neck. It's all about head space, and it's all about getting your head around what you *believe* you should be doing, and what you actually should be doing.

If you've got to do something that is intrinsically boring, for chuffs sake, don't let it eat your life. You aren't doing yourself any good, draw a line around your hours, say "no" and do some fun shit. Or just eat a random sandwich on a park bench somewhere pretty. Honestly, you'll feel better. And you'll realise that the world is not going to pitch off the mantelpiece because you decided to take your foot off the accelerator.

If you want to do something creative, do it, but accept the fact that this other thing (i.e. work) will prevent you at times. But when you do get to do it, do it well, do it freely and with joy.

You haven't sold your soul to the devil, you've just done what needed to be done.

Read, write, draw, play, rest, run, eat...the rules don't change because you're an adult. x

So...Mr Rhyming Slang...and your tragically ill-informed mates

The case of Savita Halappanavar has highlighted why I will never, ever stop banging on about this. Since becoming a parent, I've become actually more pro-choice than I was before. I didn't actually believe that was possible.

So....Mr Rhyming Slang....

Yes, that's you, Mr.Hunt, oh and you, Dorries, you fame-chasing-right-wing-press-baiting-blogger-harassing-half-wit, now hopefully up to your nipples in rats, spiders, centipedes and soap stars who are approaching the brick wall of the end of their careers like a stampeding bull on whizz. Oh, and you too, Cameron, Romney, Ryan, Bachman and Palin.

I hope you're feeling suitably scared by my teeny blog with a teeny audience.

Right, hat in the ring.

The stuff that goes on the wombs and love tunnels of the world (and that corner of the world that you exercise a degree of influence over) has *nothing* to do with you.

If you're going to take a role like "Secretary of State for Health", a tiny bit of medical knowledge is generally useful. Also, as a very recent parent (I'm looking at YOU, Mr Hunt), one would hope that a tiny bit of attention *might* have been paid to little things like when certain scans occurred on ye-olde-up-the-duff time line that tell you whether or not your kid is likely to, oh, live....and stuff.

What these halfwits don't seem to realise is that, if they erode the rights as they currently exist, they run the risk of ending up killing a woman because the fading heartbeat of the baby she's losing is more important. That is what happened here, all because some people believe that Sky Dad says no. They also seem to have convincingly ignored that by doing this, it's not beyond the realms of possibility that this could bite them on the arse, personally.

I like that fact that our fine and admirable medical profession in the UK (especially obstetrics and gynaecology because they are the ones I've had more to do with recently) are focused on trying to ensure the best outcomes for everybody. Delaying life saving treatment (because that's what Savita would have really been getting because that miscarriage could not have been prevented) cost a woman her life.

Not good enough, not acceptable, please let birth and pregnancy be dealt with appropriately...and political types.....shhhhh, before you make more of a fool of yourselves.

Duffed no more: It runs in the family

To be completely honest, I garnered a faint suspicion early on that my darling Mini D was perhaps going to take after my side of the family (in some respects) at the 12 week scan. From the anecdotes that I've heard from quite a lot of mothers, their "euphemism" was serenely treading water, sleeping or looking generally pretty Zen at this point. And my beloved is a bit of a laid back guy.

Hmm...after about 10 seconds into the first ultrasound, it was clear that this was not going to happen in my world. Jumping bean central. Rick O'Shay. Ditto at the 20 week and 23 week scan. We couldn't tell the gender because he wouldn't actually stay still long enough. This reminds of my greatly adored and brilliant little sister, whose dedication to talking to people, and possibly having more energy than many have in a lifetime is just awesome, if a little brain cobbling for the casual observer.
Oh and the fact we nicknamed him "Kicky".

This blog sounds terribly me-me-me at the minute but I must admit, I hope it means he's "caught" the music gene, because two big lads in the house who couldn't carry a tune in a bucket would probably be the death of me. This flat is *way* too small for tunes that are not meant to be atonal, becoming slowly more atonal over time. This is combined with bizarre timing that results in gradual shortening of a given musical phrase until it's only the "headline" bit of the riff that's suddenly being delivered in 2.5/4 time rather than the 4/4 it started out with. After driving one round the twist. It's like a riff has a half life, gradually losing notes like radium loses electrons...

Duffed no more - eek

Hecky thump I belong to a network!