This level of posting enthusiasm can't last.

I'm thinking of renaming this blog "The Grammatical Error." I keep spotting irksome errors in tense but can't face editing on this stupid iPhone. Just know I see them and they will, at some point, be fixed. 

Blogging every day is difficult! I don't have much to report today. Last night, I got a shitty night's sleep. I can't bitch - or rather, I shouldn't bitch because, come on, I'm practically a pro at bitching - since the baby has been a kick-ass sleeper since she was about six weeks old. I wish I could get good and smug, and boast about my top notch parenting skills, but it's just luck. She's got her father's laid back, adaptable temperament. 

Last night though, she was a total jerk. She's still in our room - we plan to move her into the nursery at six months old, if my professional builder/carpenter of a partner ever gets round to finishing it. She kept fidgeting and snuffling, which never fails to send a bolt of anxiety through me because I'm sure she's about to wake up wailing. I guess it must be some animal response to my young - ie "be aware of your baby at all times, yes, EVEN when you put fresh sheets on the bed tonight and had a delicious nightcap and DO NOT want to be roused. You didn't go through the dirge of pregnancy and birth to have your helpless infant carried off by a mountain lion."

So I kept hopping up, popping her dummy in and getting resettled, only to have to repeat the process four seconds later. After about ten minutes of this, I started to get all huffy - you know, stage-whispering shit like "Y'know I'M tired too. At least ONE OF US gets things DONE around here." I'm not very proud of myself. J is working this ridiculous job that has him up at 4.30am and not home til after 9.00pm each night, and he's one of those annoying bastards who never complains about anything. Ever. 

So I finally admitted defeat and got up to feed and change her and OMG COULD THIS POST BE ANY MORE BORING? Long story short, I got a crappy night's sleep, felt bad about being a bitch to J, the end. 

I'll try and rob a bank tomorrow or something, so I have something noteworthy to talk about. 

PS - I didn't write all these stupid posts today; I must reset the time zone to GMT. 

Jane? You still doing that advice column?

I've got myself into a delicate situtuation and I need advice. Our baby girl was born in October, and whilst I was recuperating from being cut in half for the blessed event, I ended up chatting to the woman in the bed across from me. She also had a baby girl, on the same day, via the same method, so we had lots of notes to compare.


She didn't appear to have many visitors, and was clearly pretty baffled by tending to a newborn's needs (42, first child, no partner on the scene - it's amazing what people will tell you when they're doped to the gills on opiates).

She told me she was from Zimbabwe and had been in Scotland for about ten years. Turned out we only lived a few streets away. When it was time for my discharge from hospital, we politely exchanged numbers. I never really expected to hear from her again which was fine. It was just one of those things, you know?

Except, it wasn't one of those things. She texted me a couple of weeks later and it seemed to me she'd hit the brick wall of postnatal depression pretty hard. I offered to run down to the shops for basic provisions, and offered a shoulder to cry on. 

You probably see where this is going. I tried to rationalise the increasing phone calls, requests for baby advice, money, phone calls to the bank on her behalf, and free installation of wood flooring in her living room (J is a carpenter).  (He said hell no, btw).  I said things to myself like "She's just isolated; she needs a friend, she's out of her depth." But I knew that it was bullshit. 

Some people are not even slightly reluctant to ask for favours. Some people don't bat an eye over taking your time and resources to solve their own problems. 

These people are called users. 

I've worked at putting distance between us. I didn't respond to her texts for threeish weeks, and truthfully, I was busy anyway. We were getting ready to travel to Ireland, and there a bazillion errands to run, not to mention the usual daily grind raising a young family. I was legitimately busy. 

Yesterday, I had to take the baby to the doctor for some cream - she's had this persistent nappy rash for a couple of weeks. I bumped into her - she'd taken her baby in to get weighed. O HAI I'M REPREZZED AN UR MAKIN ME FEEL AWKWARD. 

Since I have no balls, I fell all over myself apologising for being out of touch. She asked if I fancied a coffee. What I SHOULD have said was, "Actually, I have a few things to do this afternoon, but thanks. Take care, kthxbai." What I ACTUALLY said was, "Er, sure!" and mentally beating myself repeatedly in the face with my rage-filled fists. 

But we didn't go for coffee! She had to go to the Citizen's Advice Bureau for help with some boring government form or another, and suddenly, there I was, sitting depressing fluorescent lighting, discussing National Insurance contributions on behalf of my good friend. 

I know this isn't the most riveting reading, but I'm trying to set the scene. I had to go to the bank to pay some money into our account so it wouldn't go overdrawn, the bank was closing soon, I needed to pick up some thank you cards, I had soda bread to bake to go with dinner, the baby was fussing wanting to be fed and OMGWTF I DON'T HAVE THE TIME OR INCLINATION FOR THIS.

After that drag-fest, I was starving so decided to pop into McDonald's - not something I do that often but it works in a pinch. Taggy McTagalong came too. Get this: whilst on the queue waiting to order, she says "Oh, can you buy me a Big Mac Meal?" and saunters off to a table. 

I didn't have much of a choice. Let me rephrase that: if you are me, and often find yourself disproportionately concerned with being polite, even if no one else seems to be, you don't have much of a choice. So I bought her the fucking Big Mac, bolted my own meal down, made my goodbyes and left. 

When J got home from work last night, I recited my tale of woe, and he got pretty annoyed on my behalf. He says there's nothing wrong with making enough polite excuses until someone gets the hint, if an out and out snub isn't your thing. 

I hate this kind of crap. Just this minute I got a text from her. When the fuck will I learn?!

Animal Farm.

Let's take a break from the recent Old Testament theme around here and liven things up a bit. Basically, I want to tell you all how I am a) the keenest-ever future farmer's-wife-to-be and b) totally destined to suck at it.

When I first met J and we were getting to know all about each other I was FASCINATED with the fact that he'd grown up in this rural Irish farming village. We'd lie on bed at night and I would play 20 Questions. "Have you ever helped with calving?" "Did you really go up to the bog to cut turf?" "How much land do you have?" "What the fuck is turf?" etc.

I was amazed.  J was driving cars  down country roads at fourteen, working with cattle, going to their ancestrally-owned section of the peat bog to cut the aforementioned turf which they burned in their giant enamel woodstove to heat the house - basically doing all this James Herriot stuff. Meanwhile, I was firmly entrenched in city life with very few comparable experiences.

I started planning my future bucolic existence. I mentally bought French copper pans to hang on the walls of my farmhouse kitchen, alongside sprigs of drying herbs and lavender. I contemplated the choice of gingham cloth I was going to tie artfully over the tops of my homemade jams. I had whole conversations in my mind with the quaint, local purveyors of artisan breads and farmhouse cheeses.

All together now: AHAHAHAHA. 

Clearly, I didn't have a fucking clue about what farm life is really like. There I was thinking it was some gentle pastiche between Better Homes and Gardens and Babe. Well, guess what? I was a total dope.

The first time I visited the farm, J led me down to the barn at my eager request. But where was the Amish-style, hand-hewn gingerbread house of my dreams? I was presented with a red oxide, corrugated tin shed, all ugly and functional. What's more, I was terrified of the cows! Talk about embarrassing. Top of the food chain cowering from dinner. Well whatever, because cows are big, dumb, and strong. TRIPLE THREAT. 

I made a city girl FOOL of myself on my first visit. Quaking at every electric fence we had to navigate, gagging at the smell of silage, secretly judging all the owners of legit working dogs because they don't pamper them, worrying about tick bites, wasp stings, needing tetanus shots after scraping myself on rusty barbed wire...you name it, I probably dosed myself with Valium to get over it. 

I even remember dolefully sitting in the village pub holding my iPhone at multiple angles, getting more and more agitated over reception. I wanted to send my friend a text, and I still remember clearly what it said:

OMG DEEP IN RURAL IRELAND. SEND SUSHI AND WIFI STAT. 

You guys. The nearest hospital if the shit hits the fan involves air lifting. Chronic hypochondriacs cannot DEAL with that shit. So, I was pretty much a hot mess the first time round. 

Not one to, you know, take a goddamn hint ("YOU'RE PROBABLY NOT BEST SUITED FOR THIS KIND OF RUSTIC LIFE, STUPID!") I persist in dreaming of farm living. We'll move there eventually and I find myself thinking about it a lot. I was much better this time round, to be fair. Over the course of my visits, I've grown bolder. 

There were two incidents of note this last time that prove I'm not fully there yet though. 

One was when I took seven year old boy down to the barn so we could put the silage up to their trough. In the winter the cows go into the slattern house because it's too cold outside and there'd be nothing for them to eat anyway. So there we were, pitchforking merrily away. The barn door was wide open, but I was like "Meh, the cows can't get out." which they can't, so cool, right? WRONG. 

One of the cows had calved four days earlier. (J's brother K had to get up at three a.m and pull him out of the mother as he was stuck. They then gave him a shot of poitín, which is Irish moonshine to "warm him up". I TOLD YOU IT WAS OLDSCHOOL OUT THERE.)

Seven year old wimped out after ten minutes saying his hands hurt and scampered off. I decided to finish the job. Suddenly I realised the calf (being small obv) can leap in and out under the trough bars. Remember the barn door is WIDE OPEN at this point, I'm alone, the giant mother Charolais cow is now braying viciously because I'm near teh baybee. The baby kept trying to bolt past me and I was like "YOU SHALL NOT PASS!" with this fucking heavy pitchfork. Eventually I just shrieked "J!!" at the top of my lungs. He eventually sauntered in and was like "What?", strolled over toward the calf and shooed him back in like he was a well trained house dog or something. 

Well screw you J, and your insouciance. 

The other thing was when I was SURE this ram was going to kill five year old girl. We left the house early one morning to go for a walk and this huge, shaggy creepy-ass looking ram was walking right towards us up J's driveway. Then it started running, head down. I grabbed the girl, all ready to fling her over the fence to sweet safety, when suddenly he ducked to the right and through a gap in the fence to the neighbouring field. When I recounted our near miss everyone was like "Sheep are basically retarded. Stamp your foot and they flee!"

Well, alright, country mice. Well played. But I bet if we turned the tables and I, say, told you to take the underground across London at night, and pick up a bottle of wine that goes well with truite au bleu - WELL. Not so smug now eh?

I'm back in April. J's mum says she needs me to help with the calving because all the menfolk are working away then. She mentioned SHOULDER GLOVES. 

Fuuuuuuck. 

Recap.

I'm going to make a concerted effort to post every day. At least for the next month or so, until it becomes a habit. I make no statement of guarantee on the quality of these posts, note. Roughly 85% of them are bound to be sedative drainage. COME FOR THE PROMISE OF SHENANIGANS, STAY FOR THE MONOTONY.

The christening has been and gone and as far as any potential God is concerned, my infant daughter's soul has been claimed by the Roman Catholic church. I wish I had more gossipy scandal to report, but the whole thing went off without much drama. I did, however, make a bit of an arse out of myself when asked by the priest to read out a prayer. I'd come down with a blocked nose the night before and was concentrating so fiercely on trying to open my mouth as little as possible - just enough to keep my blood oxygen levels stable, but not so much I looked like a gawping, slack-jawed moron - that I was startled to realise he'd handed me a prayer card and was looking at me expectantly. "Do..do I just start now?" I whispered, but as I did so, my nose released a stream of clear snot, which I had no choice but to dab away with the sleeve of my cream linen jacket. GROSS.
And then! I read the damn thing out, but not knowing from Catholic rituals, I failed to realise the last line was a congregal response. So then I startled in my seat when everyone droned the last bit, and stopped saying it midway through. I gave J the stink-eye which translated as "NO TIME FOR AN ECCLESIASTICAL CRASH COURSE DOUCHEBAG?"

And there were a couple of minor, hairy moments. One was when the priest invited us to rejoice, for the child was no longer a pagan, but now one of god's chosen people. Wtf? PAGAN? As for the other bit, he might be interested in a theological debate with the Jews over who's chosen and whatever. Another wee hiccup was when he approached my two elder children saying, "Now, you two won't remember when this was done to you!" and my son shooting me a "Mum? Errr...?" kind of look. Which was swiftly returned with a "SHUTUPSHUTUP DON'T SAY A WORD, I'LL BUY YOU A PONY OR A DRAGON OR WHATEVER SSSSSHHHH," glare.

I kept being referred to as J's wife, which, okay, no big. I did find a giant framed picture of Jesus with his (His?) sacred heart all on show in our suitcase when I was unpacking earlier this week, which I assume is from J's mum. I wish it had one of those battery operated pretend candles with it, because then I could justify hanging it in the name of kitsch. The rest of our five days there were really fun - calves and lambs on the farm for the kids to see, barrels of drink and plenty of craic. ONWARD CHRISTIAN SOLDIERS!