Don’t call me Mum. (The Journey.)

‘A woman with a child rediscovers the world. All is changed – politics, loyalties, needs. For now, all is judged by the life of the child… and all of the children’ – Pam Brown.

Yes thanks Pam.

Anybody who has ever had a bump the size of Albania bulging from under their t-shirt will be able to attest to the fact, that when you are visibly pregnant you seemingly and against your will, become public property.  

If you don’t believe me, I absolutely recommend you take a small dog, or perhaps a bean bag, and shove it up your jumper and head to the shops (Maybe not a small dog, the whimpering and squirming may put you off your stride) to test the theory.

Having a rather large bulge just above your nether regions (and I don’t mean a hiatus hernia) in simple terms, must just give the impression that you are simply desperate for everybody to come over and touch it, and/or offer you unwanted and mostly unwarranted advice.

Out of nowhere you go from not showing and having a romantic little secret, to showing and having every man and his dog run their hands/paws over your growing uterus while offering you words of wisdom and tiny pearls of poo. (I call them pearls of poo, because a lot of the advice I heard off strangers while pregnant, really wasn’t advice at all, it was poo. Pearl sized poo.)

Don’t reach up or the baby will be strangled on the chord… (Really, Aunty Pat?)
Try not to eat so much… (Rip, Sarah.)
There is no such thing as a due date… (Huh? I think you will find there is old woman!)
Don’t call the baby a stupid name… (We like Radiator Leak Doyle, what business it is of yours?)
You are huge, are you having twins?.. (SLAP!)

The list is endless, but the one which I heard, interestingly enough, from people who both knew me well and were mothers themselves (so I felt I should listen and believe them) was;

 ‘Motherhood will change you.’

‘What?’ I would stutter ‘why does everybody keep saying this to me? Do you think I need to change? You don’t think I’ll be a good mum as I am now? How will it change me?’  Was usually my nervous, insecure, blimp like and panicked reply.

‘Mwahahahahahaha’ they would cackle as they threw their heads back with evil glee ‘you will see! You will see!’  And with that they would sweep their flowing black capes from out behind them, with all their children clinging on for dear life and disappear in to the night, like terrifying visions of the ghost of Christmas future.

In fact I heard this phrase so often, combined with its partner in crime; You will feel a love so overwhelming you won’t remember life before him, that Leading up to my due date (that didn’t exist) I actually became rather worried that as soon as I had given birth, my memory of life pre-pleb (as we had nicknamed the bump) would be completely wiped out, and I would wake up as an entirely different person. Bette Midler maybe, but with a bigger nose.

Lifting my half numb legs, an hour post birth, up on to the bed that was to be my home for the next seven days, and with the little ferret parked in a plastic basting tray next to me, all wrapped up and looking like a cute prune, I began to worry, that other than being a little bit teary, absolutely knackered and in a huge amount of agony, I still felt like me.  I was officially a mother now, wasn’t I supposed to be a changed person?

Now, don’t get me wrong. I had just had a baby, so of course I was over the moon, overwhelmed and overweight, but other than the obvious changes to my anatomy, including far too many stitches and a drain, I had to be honest, I didn’t feel any different, and upon further examination, I could still remember my life before birth too. What was wrong with me? Wasn’t I supposed to have forgotten my entire life leading up to this moment?

‘Would you like some tea and toast?’ the floating head of a midwife appeared from behind my curtain and kindly asked me in a soft, sleepy voice.  

‘No, but could I please have a strong black coffee, a bag of square crisps and a pillow?’ was my reply.

Definitely still me then.

Maybe I will feel different in the morning, I thought to myself after spending an hour and a half trying to have a wee. Maybe you have to sleep on it.

We hadn’t been home for long before I was feeling intensly sleep deprived and hugely grumpy. Visitors came and went and for a while I wondered if The Irish One had started a guest house without telling me. I just wanted to shower, to sleep and then sleep some more.

(Wouldn’t it make more sense if the visitors came at least a month after you are home?  Because seriously, the last thing you want when you are having to walk like Jon Wayne and every second step makes you screech like a banshee, is a coach load of distant relatives traipsing through your house and man-handling the goods, you know?)

But anyway, moving on, The Irish One was constantly professing to me, his love for Newborn Woo. He was a doting daddy and it pissed me off. (I can’t explain this. It just did.)

‘I know,’ I would mumble, irritated, from underneath the duvet (the guests had got bored of me whacking my breasts out while they were trying to drink a brew and eat us out of house and home, and had finally buggered off) ‘I know, yes’ I would repeat as he droned on about knowing the meaning of true love ‘I love him too, but don’t tell me he is awake again, is he? He isn’t is he?’ I would panic, terrified the next round of nipple torture was about to start.

‘If you feel like that about him waking up to see you,’ he said pointedly, removing his (ginger) head from inside the moses basket, ‘Maybe it is time to stop breast feeding! He isn’t taking enough anyway and you don’t seem to have any coming out, so what harm can it do? Let’s give him a bloody bottle.’

‘Shut up!!’ I raged back! ‘How dare you!’ The pressure I felt to succeed at everything was immense. I resented his insinuation that I was failing. As it was, I am not sure that The Irish One even knows what the word insinuate means, never mind having had the energy or inclination, at that time, to follow it through! He was just worried about me, but I was too scared to see it.

Did I feel different when the decision to stop breast feeding was made? Nope. Stopping breastfeeding just confirmed my failure status. I had gone from probable failure to failure absolut with one sweep of a plastic teat. (The lanosil, is still in the fridge as a constant reminder of what could have been. I can’t be arsed to take it out. It’s next to the Jam that has been there since 2002. Some jobs I just never get round to.)

I was officially a crap mum, who could remember her past, and (shock horror!) even missed the easy going way it used to be!! I would have killed for an hour in front of the telly uninterrupted! I also wasn’t sure I was any different at all, other than my inability to hold my bladder when I sneezed, or stop eating mayo by the ton, motherhood hadn’t changed me at all!! And Yes I loved my son but (are you ready for this?) it wasn’t overwhelming!! (MONSTER!!)

I loved him because he was mine, sure. I loved him because he was gorgeous and I loved him because he was cute, and sweet and tiny. I loved him because he was my son and I had to love him didn’t I? 

I felt like I had to love him because if I didn’t who else would?

This is extremely hard for me to admit, and I have tears rolling down my face as I write this. Not because I still feel the same, but because nobody told me this could happen, so I thought I wasn’t normal. I beat myself up, and I broke my own heart. I became convinced I didn’t love him enough and there was something wrong with me.

Every new mother I spoke to would go on and on and on and on about how much they loved their child, and how easy it was, and how natural it felt to them, and how they had whipped up some mange tout while expressing breast milk in to a pre warmed bottle, while cooking a roast for their husband and then pleasuring him while changing a nappy. The pressure for ‘motherhood to change me’ and for my love for him to be ‘overwhelming’ was too much.  It hadn’t happened overnight. So I was officially a horrible, nasty, selfish freak of a person.

The health visitor arrived 8 years later, after many calls from the Irish One reminding her I still existed, to examine ‘A.J’, as she infuriatingly kept calling him, and to check on me.  She obviously had a thing about abbreviating and changing names as she surprised me by calling me ‘Mum’ while examining him. I was caught off guard and somehow ended up blabbing that I had stopped breastfeeding because of the pain. She shook her head in disappointment and said ‘That’s a shame Mum.’

Who me? I thought? Don’t call me mum! That doesn’t sound right. It doesn’t fit with me yet. I don’t feel like a mother or a mum. I can’t even breastfeed right can I? I am not his mum. I am just the person who cleans up poo, spends 40 minutes of every hour chasing an elusive burp and who will never again, drink a hot cup of tea.

My name is Lexy. Not ‘Mum!’

‘Do you feel depressed?’ she asked in response, using a totally inappropriate sing songy voice.

‘Me?’ I asked, while wiping sick of my filthy t-shirt with yesterdays knickers, ‘No! Not at all! I can’t believe he is here! He is amazing! Isn’t he beautiful? I love him so much. I think my heart may fall out. It is just overwhelming!’ I cooed while staring at him in pretend awe.

She left happy enough, after clearly ignoring all the signs, and the next time I saw her was 7 months later, when she was knocking on my door, because my Dr was concerned, I may be a potential suicide risk.

Addison had been very poorly for a good while, and I was exhausted from fighting with Dr after Dr to get them to listen. I wasn’t suicidal. I was just knackered and pissy, but nevertheless she left happy that day too. She hustled in, and hustled out. She didn’t want to help. One day I will write her a letter and tell her to get a job as a clown. She would be much better suited to a role with barely any responsibility, and her lipstick was always all over her face anyway, so it would make for an easy transition.

He is my son, and nothing will happen to him on my watch, I would profess to the Irish One during the endless days in hospital, all the while mistaking love for duty.

It was 3 months on from Allergy-Gate (as I now call it) when Addison was 10 months old and still had a grizzly bottom, that I finally snapped.

‘I bet you can’t remember life before him can you?’ My aunty Kathleen gushed at a family gathering ‘He is just simply gorgeous isn’t he? Isn’t it an overwhelming love? Motherhood just changes you completely don’t you think?’  

At the time, in fairness, Addison has just shat up his back for the third time in a three hour period and I wasn’t in the mood for a gushing, drunk relative, no matter how well placed her intentions were.

‘Actually Aunty Kathleen,’ I said bluntly, ‘Yes, I do remember life before him; it was only 10 months ago for Christ sake!! I had a baby, not a lobotomy!! I remember life before him, very well in fact! I used to get some sleep! And while we are on the subject, yes he is cute, and yes I do love him, but is it overwhelming? The only thing which is overwhelming to me currently is the need for a lie in!’

She stood glass in hand, staring at me, like a rabbit caught in headlights. (She has big teeth.)

‘And as for motherhood changing me?’ I raged in her face ‘the only thing different about me, is I am four stone heavier and my nails are constantly caked in crap!!’ And with that I flounced out of the room in search of the changing bag. (And a big glass of wine.)

It felt such a relief to finally be honest!  Although, thinking about it now, I should probably ring my Aunty Kathleen at some point and apologise.

My first Mothers day was possibly the darkest and most painful day I have experienced since having Addison.

‘Don’t give me that sodding card!’ I screamed at the Irish One, holding my beautiful boy ‘I am not a mother!!! I am just a babysitter!!! This is nothing to do with post natal depression!! This is because I am a freak!! I don’t love my son enough!! I can remember what happened before he was born!! I don’t feel changed!!! I am still Lexy!! I am not a mum!! I am a letdown!! A failure!! I hate you, I hate myself and I hate mother’s day!!! Just piss off and leave me alone!!

It was awful for everybody involved.

And then something began to happen, much like the phoneix rising from the ashes (you godda love the drama!) I slowly began to enjoy waking up at the crack of dawn and seeing my son’s face, instead of it being a chore, I began to enjoy the moments we spent laughing and watching him grow.

Instead of waiting for the light to switch on at the end of the tunnel, I began to run towards it. It happened naturally. My self-hatred slowly began to thaw and in its place something else arrived.

Hope.

Last night, exactly four hours before we were due to leave for the airport, on a holiday we have been looking forward to for months, Addison was sick. He was clinging on to me for dear life and burying his head in to my shoulder.

‘We are going nowhere.’ I told the Irish One instinctively ‘There is no way I am putting my son through this journey when he is feeling this poorly. I am absolutely gutted, but he comes first.’

Strangely, and without even properly thinking about what I was doing, I put my feelings of disappointment over a missed trip, to one side and got on with the job of cleaning him up and consoling him. He was broken, and it was my job to fix him, just like I had done all those times before.

And then, even stranger still, while walking in to the Dr’s office this morning, thinking about how I should have been landing in Spain and hugging my dad, I pulled my son to me, inhaled the smell of his head and was hit by a bolt of lightning. (Not literally, but if you had seen my hair you may have thought this was the case.)

The only thing that mattered was Addison.  I loved him more than life itself. The love I felt was; dare I say it?

Overwhelming.

‘Are you his mum?’ The locum asked while feeling his tummy for swelling.

 ‘Yes,’ I grinned back proudly, while kissing his forehead (Addison’s, not the locum’s) ‘Yes. I bloody well am.’ And against my will I puffed my shoulders out.

My boy is beautiful! And he is all mine!

I walked back to the car, dancing on air, clutching my son’s small head, to my bursting heart.

So as it turned out, motherhood did change me. It made me a better person. It just took me a while longer to feel and recognise those feelings. Yes I can still be a grumpy moose, but I am making progress.

I loved my son, I did. I just didn’t bond the instant I saw him. I loved him, but it wasn’t overwhelming from the first instant we met.

I see now, this doesnt make me a freak. This is just my journey. Everybody is different.

It took me a year to see what it is all about. It took me a year to recognise something I knew all along.

I forgive myself for that. (Except based on the fact, I did always love him, I did always care for him and I did always ensure he was happy, safe and fed, I am not sure there is actually anything to forgive myself for…)

If I was to see a pregnant woman in the street now, I would be unlikely to approach her and jump in to motherhood 101, but if she struck up a conversation with me, my advice would probably be;

‘Don’t pressure yourself in to feeling anything more than you do, in the moment. Everything you feel, at every step of the way, is unique to you and no matter what happens, the bond will grow and emotionally, so will you. Everything will turn out alright… oh, and good luck…. and join Twitter.’

‘When you are a mother you are never really alone in your thoughts. A mother always has to think twice, once for herself and once for her child.’ – Sophia Loren.

Now that, I can finally agree with.

MammyWoo’s guide to Tot Traveling.

God I hate flying.

If I could, I would never step foot on a big metal bird ever again and would travel everywhere by boat (with champagne in my hand and my hair blowing in the wind.)

I hate everything that is involved with taking to the skies, but nothing terrifies me more than the fact that for 2 and a half hours at any given point, my quaking bones will be at the very minimum, a midgie’s dick away from the final frontier and a midgie’s forskin away from potentially plummeting 32 godzillion feet to my untimely and not very romantic death.

It is not the actual death bit that scares me, because I figure, wherever I was before I was born I was fine, it is more the plummeting part that puts the fear of god up me.

You have to admit. Flying is not natural. Flying is shit and I am shit at flying.

It’s a means to an end though, and if i can happily sit and speak to thousands of people I don’t know on my iphone, then I must also accept and deal with the fact that I will have to fly every now and again.

I am a strong woman. Honest.  So I will cope.

This week started with me sitting on a Goodfella’s pepperoni and will end with me mounting a bird of death to Spain, to visit my dad and the various wild animals and hairy Spanish murderers (all lurking in the undergrowth) dotted around his colonial style Spanish finca which literally sits on top of a beautiful mountain in the middle of nowhere.

If we were just a little bit richer and a little bit famous, we could probably build a bouncy castle type landing pad on top of his balcony (not the bit with the turret) and just parachute out of the plane and right in to his living room, instead of having to endure the shaky, achy decent on to the runway of doom in to Malaga. (I hate take off and landing and the bit in between, come to think of it, the most.)

Unfortunately though, I have bled my father’s bank account dry over the last year (thanks dad, love you!)  and as I am not famous at all, (unless you count the time I fell off the stage, exposing myself, at the chinese karaoke) the theme park esque landing pad will have to be put on hold for now. (Maybe when we win the lottery eh? )

That said, I love visiting my dad, I love going home, (when I lived there we lived in a trendy, hustling, bustling town further up the coast, but when I left papaaa went local and decided to move the family home to el campo where he now spends his time gardening, spotting wild boar, wearing plaid shirts and ringing me for advice about how to download ‘stuff’ like that ‘angry bird shit’ from ITunes. Although it has to be said, his landscape garden is absolutely beautiful and his quality of life is enviable) and finally I love watching Addison spend quality time with granddad.

Addison adores his granddad almost as much as I do and I can’t wait to spend a week laughing and enjoying the company of my three favourite men. Unfortunately Doodle will be staying here so our matching poodles will not get to cavort in the sun together. (Matching poodle’s are the ultimate accessory.)

After my last visit to Spain which involved amongst other things, me forgetting the word for nappy (panales!) and having to play charades with an unsuspecting commuter at 8 in the morning (1 word, 2 sylables, mime having a poo.) I have put together a list of things; you simply must do if you are travelling abroad for the first time with your new child.

MammyWoo’s guide to travelling with a tot, if you will.

1)      Don’t do it unless you absolutely have to.

2)      If you can go by boat then please lend me your boat so I can go by boat too.

3)      On arriving at the airport don’t announce to your partner, you have in fact, forgotten the changing bag. This will only enrage your travelling companion and cause massive argumentus errupticus over international waters.  Just buy a new bag in the departure lounge; it isn’t like he is going to notice!

4)    Squeeze baby’s tummy gently so he/she poo’s before you get on the plane.  (JOKE!) Aeroplane toilets are designed by people with no elbows so take a plastic knife.

5)      Hack your own elbows off with the plastic knife during takeoff, in preparation for in-flight flatulence and follow through. (The baby’s, not yours.)

6)      Take toys your baby has never seen before, this will keep him entertained for at least 12 seconds before the screaming begins. (Yours not his.)

7)      Unwrap the toys before you get on the plane as asking for ‘a knife to slice the twiddly bits of my box’ may alarm the homosexual (but fabulous) air steward.

8)      Take a local language phrase book. Learn the word for ‘fucking hell’ and ‘bollocks’ so that people know to get out of your way when you begin to lose the plot.

9)      Never give a six month old a prawn. (BELIEVE ME.)

10)   Make sure you take enough formula to last the duration of the holiday. If you have never breastfed, massaging your tiny boobs in a desperate attempt to produce milk, will only serve to send the wrong message to your partner and ultimately your baby will still be starving after you have fought him off.  

11)   Never say yes to sex until he has promised you at least an hour, of child free sunbathing.

12)   Always find out where the nearest Dr’s office is for any eventuality including but not limited to; 

• Severe sunburn.
• Severe annoying tendency illness (The Irish One not me.)
• Gastro enteritis (the Baby.)
• ‘A bad stomach’ (the Irish One.)
• ‘The shits.’ (me.)
• ‘Get out of my house you smelly bastards’ (my dad.)

And finally;

BUY A TOTSEAT FROM BABY LOVES SHOPPING!! Some of the high chairs over there are dodgy as hell! Do I want to tie my baby in to that hammock using string and an old Labrador? Er, no gracias.

See you on the other side people. I love you long time.

Are you ready for some babysitting dad?

Una cerveza porfavor!

Thank you to all!!! (Except Louise.)

Today is Tuesday.

I know this because yesterday while visiting a friend, exhausted and miserable after dropping Addison off at nursery, I plonked myself down on her sofa ready for a good heart to heart when unexpectedly, within seconds, my arse felt like it was on fire.

Evidently it turns out, I had unfortunately sat on a freshly cooked and piping hot pizza, that my friend had slaved over a hot oven for, and left on the sofa (who puts pizza on the sofa?!) for me to find, as a surprise lunch for us.

It certainly was a surprise but not the kind; I think she was hoping it would be.

I could act like a drama queen and tell you I suffered third degree burns as I was running around the room trying to relieve the pain by attempting to grab behind myself at an impossible angle to remove arse from fabric, but that would not be true.  As painful as it was ( let’s pause for a moment here, and give my arse the respect it truly deserves, after all it has already endured this decade) it is now recovering, and other than still being a bit hot and stingy, it looks like I will now survive.

I could also tell you that like in a cartoon there was a barrel of water in the corner of her living room which I ran towards and splashed myself in to, but that also, would be a lie. What I actually ended up having to do was much, much worse.

Over the screams of laughter coming from my other two ‘pals’ and her ‘lovely’ husband, the pain became too much. The cheese was sticking to my muffin top like shit to sellotape, and the flimsy (fake) denim material (bloody bran new summer jeans) was not cooling fast enough and felt like molten lava on my tenderest of areas, so in the end I just dropped my kecks (her husband graciously left the room, when he sensed what was about to happen) and twenty minutes later I was still standing in her living room in my knickers padding my angry bum with a sodden sponge, over a bowl. (Thinking back now, I have no idea why I didn’t just escape to the privacy of a bathroom, to soothe my under bits when this seems like such an obvious thing to do. But I just didnt. Nothing comes ‘obviously’ to me anymore.)

It was a while later, as we noticed her neighbours staring quizzically through the bay windows and sniggering, that the realisation hit; it probably would have been a good idea to shut the curtains.

Yesterday was Monday. Things like that can only happen on a Monday.

Today is Tuesday and I have not left the house other than to visit the Dr (for post natal depression related conversations, nothing to do with my flaming cheeks) and to drop and pick Addison up from nursery. I have, however had a much better day than yesterday.

I would like to  take this opportunity to thank everybody, every reader, (yes you!) Who voted for me In the Mummy and Daddy blogger awards and let you know, you have no idea how much this means to me.

So I will tell you.

It absolutely means the world, even to be a finalist. It is not the winning, as my dad used to say, it is the taking part! (Before adding that it really was the efffing winning!) This year has been a tremendous rollercoaster ride of both overwhelming and sensational emotions, but writing on here, and reading the lovely comments you leave, have really kept me going. Especially, in relation to my post natal depression, so thank you for reading, never judging, voting and putting up with my more miserable of posts.

Tomorrow is Wednesday and I am off for a ‘tweet up’ in a soft play centre with two of my lovely cyber friends and our gaggle of children. I am hideously anxious that I will fall off a cliff, accidentally maim somebody or wet myself in another terrifying sneezing accident, in front of these two wonderful people and their gorgeous children but what can I do? I will not let fear of embarrasment rule my life or I would never leave the house. (I wouldnt have to!)

My track record on managing not to make an arse (fnar, fnar!) of myself over the last fortnight has not been great, let’s face it. So I will take this moment to apologise in advance for any upset I may cause to these new-found friends.

A year ago, if somebody had told me that Twitter was a life line I would have told them to ‘get a life’ and if somebody had then told me to start a blog, I probably would have nodded and said ‘yah’ a lot, before walking away to look up the term ‘blog’ in my dictionary.

A year later, although I am a walking, talking, catastrophe, I can honestly say my friends, both on twitter and from real life, are amazing and some days I feel truly blessed. (I would never have said something like this a year ago!)

I’m about to get all cheesy (no reference to the pizza here please, it is not funny!) But somebody recently told me that ‘life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass, it’s about learning to dance in the rain’ and even though after ringing my friend this morning to apologise and hearing her husband singing Kings of Leon Sex is on fire but substituting sex for ‘Arse’ in the background, I really do think maybe it is time to stop being a victim and start learning to dance.

So here goes.

I am not a victim!

I sat on that pizza on purpose.

Ahem.

And Oh, Louise!! Please tell your husband that Joke is OLD!! And Oh, Louise!! Next time I visit, maybe you could think about using the 10 seater, sturdy and safe dining room table you seem to have lying around, to put lunch on, eh?  And Oh, Louise!! Tell your neighbours I am truly sorry.  No one deserves to see my baggy knickers at 1pm on a Monday afternoon.

Numpty.

To see the other amazing blogs and finalists in this years MAD awards and to cast your vote for a winner, click here

Http://The-mads.com/finalists-new.htm

I have voted for some brilliant blogs and I am honoured to be among them.

Thank you everybody.

It’s only a day away! (Tomorrow.)

A week after my brother died I booked a plane to Florida.

I planned to run away from the grief, sadness and pain that I was surrounded by and have a little holiday in a place which had always brought me feelings of happiness, joy and love.

Ever since I was a child Walt Disney World held special meaning to me, it was a place of family unity, a place of laughter but most of all it was the place where I was sure I could run away to, and the grief wouldn’t find me.

When I arrived at the Priory last Tuesday, after a tense 25 minutes on the motorway getting completely lost and ending up on the ring road for Terminal 2 car park at Manchester airport (my sense of direction is absolutely terrible, I could get lost in my own living room) I was absolutely frazzled and unsure of whether this journey would be worth all the effort.

I drove past a golf course internally screaming about my inability to listen to even the simplest of instructions, and screaming externally at Vivian (my Sat nav is called Vivian, on account she sounds like an anally retentive, posh school teacher) who was now insisting I ‘make a u-turn, make a u-turn’  on a one way road. I banged my fist on the steering wheel in frustration and prepared to throw Vivian out of the window, when all of a sudden, like the illusive light at the end of the tunnel, there it was in front of me. (Screw you Vivian! You make a u-turn you clapped out whore bag! Update your software!)

‘The Priory Altrincham’ was written as clear as day on an understated sign surrounded by a backdrop of sweeping green, perfectly mowed fields and majestic, beautiful oak trees. ‘Huh?’  I thought to myself. Altrincham? I thought I was in Hale. (Story of my life.)

I put my foot on the brake too quickly in surprise and stalled the car.

So much for my celebrity entrance.

Nobody seemed to notice though. Teenagers and adults combined were mooching across the lawns in a relaxed manner, holding folders, and chatting, there was a woman sat to my left, cunningly hidden (but not very well as I saw her) between the trees having a sneaky puff on a no doubt elusive cigarette. I smiled at her as I passed and wondered what her story was.

I wound my window down to let in some air (I still have stomach flu and my aircon is broken) and noticed immediately how peaceful it was. It was like a blanket of calm had descended over the entire place. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, but still somehow, this place held an atmosphere that was so tranquil and still, it was almost eerie. Maybe I have just watched too many films.

I located the car park with moments to spare before my appointment, and in my panic to park, duly knocked off my wing mirror manoeuvring in, next to a great big mucky, yellow skip. (I wasn’t even reverse parking!)

It’s typical really, that amongst all this beauty and expansive open space, I would be the person to locate and destroy a material possession on probably the only eyesore in a 500 mile radius. I see now why nobody else had parked there. Would you park a Porsche Carrera or a Range rover sport next to a skip outside a loony bin? No? Me either, but hindsight is a wonderful thing. (My car is a shed, but I was still gutted!)

After having a quick puff on my inhaler, picking my mirror up off the floor and trying not to cry at the lack of peripheral vision I now had for the journey home, I slammed my door shut and headed towards the Manor at the top of the hill, looking for reception.

I walked through the sparkling double doors just as two girls were making their exit whispering to each other conspiratorially. They had their heads down and their hands shoved deep in to their pockets. Smuggling out food? Smuggling out cigs? Sneaking off for a cig? The nosy person inside me was desperate to know their story too.

They glanced in my direction but looked away quickly. They probably thought I was one of the counsellors; such was the age gap between us. Although, come to think of it, I am probably giving myself way too much credit there. I had just been on my hands and knees next to a skip.  But anyway, very quickly I started to feel very old and very ridiculous.

Surely I was too old to need all this guff? Surely self harming and crying one’s self to sleep is for the emotionally unstable youth? What the hell was I playing at trying to stay young by being a total fuck up? I didn’t have time for this. I needed to get a grip and move on.

Every fibre of my being was screaming at me to get back in the car, and go home.  Stop wasting everybody’s time, it shouted.  But my feet kept going and before i knew it I was in reception.

I walked in, to what can only be described as a grand hall, to the sound of silverware clattering against silverware, (food smugglers those girls then I reckon…) and as my feet sank in to the ridiculously lush carpet, I looked upwards towards the most beautiful double staircase and my gaze caught on to an impressive mosaic painted ceiling. It was like a house you would see on cribs. But tasteful.

I stopped in my tracks and just stared for a while, agog. I am used to the NHS. The words poles and apart would be appropriate here. I once was booked to have psychotherapy on the NHS in Salford. The reception was behind bullet proof glass and the woman actually locked the consulting room door behind us when we went in. ‘Never be too sure’ she had laughed nervously before spending 20 minutes trying to unlock the barred window to let some air in.  I never went back, fearing for my safety never mind my sanity.

‘Hello,’ the receptionist said kindly from behind her huge mahogany desk ‘How can I help you?’

I heard her, but couldn’t respond. I was lost in the moment.

‘The suuuun will come out tommorrrrroooowwwww, bet your bottom dollarrr that tommorrowwwwwwwww, come what maaaaaaaayyyyyy’  If I had been wearing a red dress and not my lumberjack Dr martins, I would have been prancing about and singing. True story. As it were I can’t dance in those boots, so just let my imagination run riot.

This place was incredible, I was orphan Fanny (because, well, why not?) and Bupa medical Insurance had become my Daddy Warbux. Damn it! Why hadn’t I worn that spare ball gown I keep laying about the place?!

The moment overwhelming me slightly and completely lost in thoughts about changing Doodle’s name to Sandy and searching on the internet for a bald rich man, I took a step forward and nearly catapulted myself over a very well camouflaged, amongst all the grandeur, reception desk that the kind, jowly old woman who had spoken earlier, was sat behind.

‘Hello,’ the receptionist said again kindly, looking up at me, undeterred by the fact my face had just made contact with her bosom. ‘How may I help you?
‘I am here to see, Dr Jawa Gustantinoble’ I stuttered out the unpronounceable surname, mortified that I had only been there two minutes and had already managed to nearly inflict injury on both myself and an unsuspecting other.  If she had been bent over the desk, (not in a kinky way, as in, if she had been writing or something) I probably would have chinned her and she would have been knocked out.  My life is never straightforward. 

I straightened out my top and cursed my stupid big boots with their stupid big laces for planting me in such an uncompromising position.
‘Who?’ she asked,  attempting to make eye contact and looking only slightly amused and just a tad concerned by me.

After my humiliation at the dentist the day before, I’d just about had my fill of making an arse out of myself so instead of continuing to attempt to pronounce the 64 (or thereabouts) lettered surname I sensibly began to rummage in my bag for the letter containing the Dr’s name to just show her. Unfortunately my bag was still filled with formula, a bottle, 3 nappies and 7 empty biscuit packets, so this took a while.

‘Ah’ she said, when I produced the letter in such a flourish of triumph that I nearly took her eye out. ‘Dr. Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, I will tell her you are here, please rest your weary bones over there on those amazingly squishy and luxurious leather sofas by the window.’

(She didn’t actually say this, but this is what I heard.)

‘Would you like some champagne? Maybe a little caviar to tempt your over sensitive palette? Maybe a canapé?’  (Pronounced canap, for comedy value.)

(Again, she didn’t actually say this, but this is what I heard. I think she actually offered me a bru, in all honesty. But I don’t like Earl grey so declined politely.

I sat down and as my oversized pillow bottom began to sink in to the heavenly cushions I closed my eyes for the briefest of moments and was immediately transported back in time.

‘Santaaa claus wee nevverrr seeee’ my internal monologue sang ‘Santa Claus, what’s that, who’s he?’

Oh how I used to love the rags to riches story of poor orphan Annie, and oh how I thought I could relate to the poor little darling with the curly ginger hair. (For the record I came from a loving home, and my hair is bone straight and not ginger. Not that there is anything wrong with ginger. The Irish one is ginger, except he won’t admit it. He calls himself sunset blonde. Whatever mate, you are as ginger as the day is long…)

I must have been sat there for a while because the film, in my mind, had reached the part with the evil (and now I see, clearly fabulous) Miss Hannigan.

‘Er, excuse me?’ A voice bluntly interrupted my reverie.

My eyes flew open and I realised with a start I had been tapping my feet and swaying to the internal beat of Mrs Hannigan’s drunken gin fuelled symphony. When I was younger I used to hate her, what a horrible woman, I used to agree with the orphans, simply terrible, what a villain.

Now, by the way, I totally get it. ‘Little boys, with their little toys, night and day I eat breathe and smell puke and poooooo, little cheeks and little teeth, everything around me is little!! Some women are dripping with diamonds, lucky me, lucky me look at what im dripping with….. PUKE!! (For the record I love my son to the moon and back, but if I had 75 of him, I reckon I would be on the gin too. Which reminds me, I am out of wine…)

‘Er yes hi!’ I coughed out groggily.

‘Who are you and what can we do for you?’

It was the receptionist I had given my details to only about five minutes before. I was instantly confused. She was looking at me like you would look at someone you had just caught trying to wake your baby up during your well deserved five-minute period of peace and quiet. Murderous.

‘My name Is Lexy Ellis and I, err, I am, err’ I stalled, a bit scared she was holding an envelope opener or some other girls interrupted type of weaponry behind her back (shoe laces maybe.)
‘Yes?’ She asked again rudely.
‘I saw you a moment ago,’ I stuttered, ‘at least I am pretty sure I did, I told you I am here to see Dr Didumdumdumshawadada…’

Was I going mad? I was thinking. Surely I didn’t just walk in here and sit down? I am sure I spoke to her, surely I didn’t imagine up the whole conversation??? Thoughts of Russell Crowe in A Beautiful Mind flashed before my eyes and I snaffled a quick glance at her cleavage. Yes, yes, I did! I remembered, the relief washing through my brain instantly and slowing down my rampant heartbeat, I would recognise those boobs anywhere.

‘Ah,’ she rolled her eyes and backed down, immediately cursing herself ‘sorry, have you already spoken to me? My memory isn’t what it once was.’ I was flabbergasted.  ‘The doctor will be down soon to get you’ and with that she ambled away back to the desk I had been bent over, not five minutes before. Memory isn’t what it once was? ? ?

I didn’t really get to process this random and clearly mental occurrence as literally 2 second later the kind doctor appeared in front of me like a vision in designer labels. She introduced herself as Dr Hillybillysillywilly and beckoned me up the beautiful double staircase towards her consulting room.

I immediately warmed to this fabulously dressed Dr and her kind, accepting manner the moment I sat down in her inner sanctuary, as this is what it was, the term  ‘office’ does this welcoming and comfortable room no justice, and she commented on my handbag.

Materialistic? Maybe. But I am a woman who loves handbags. If she too, was a woman who loves handbags, we were going to get a long like a house on fire. Screw the delving in to my turbulent psyche; show me the lining on your Marc Jacobs!  

She didn’t council me. She didn’t umm and ahh and cock her head to the side in a patronising manner as I sat down and spoke about why I was there. (She didn’t show me her lining either, in case you are wondering.) It was a very matter of fact conversation, and I found it very easy to open up, as if we were talking about somebody else. (Gossip? Moi?)

She was absolutely lovely (and I really want her scarf) with a way about her that yes, although she was clearly loaded (I want her scarf) said that she was also down to earth and capable of empathising with those who weren’t clearly loaded. (Did I mention the Chanel scarf?)

Forgive me, at this point for skimming.

The appointment was incredibly personal and unbelievably effective.

I told her where I was at and that rather than things improving, they seemed to be getting worse. I told her about my childhood, as she asked. I told her about my twenties, as she asked, and I told her about the fateful week I spent in Florida after my brother died, because she asked.

It turns out I hadn’t run away from the grief. I had just taken it with me.

That week, spent alone, in a world so far removed from the one I then knew, a world filled with smiling families and laughing children, a world filled with possibility and hope and love, was one of the worst weeks of my entire life.

I remember sitting in the middle of Magic Kingdom, totally alone on a bench, probably the only person who was alone, in the entire park, with a vintage greying film reel of memories playing out before my eyes. Memories from long ago, memories of me and my brother, memories of me and my family, memories of working there and all moments of happiness I had experienced when I was living there, a time when life had seemed like a fun game to play.

Screams of joy, peals of laughter and it’s a small world after all, made up the soundtrack to my agonising grief, that day, sat on that bench, in the middle of a theme park, a million miles away from anybody who knew me or what I was going through, alone.

As the sepia, frozen pictures, of a happy moments lost long ago, trampled across my soul, one after the other, my heart was slowly torn out and shredded, piece by piece, and then stamped on. Everything was lost, everything was irreplaceable.

In some ways I think I left my broken heart over there, lying under that sodding bench.

I came back a different person.

(Dramatic huh? I don’t do things by halves, me.)

Ignored grief. Denial (which isn’t just a river in Egypt you know! Fnar fnar.) and a metaphorical pick and mix of psychiatric terminology was thrown at me towards the end of the session.

I was exhausted. I hadn’t cried. I hadn’t wailed but I hadn’t lied.

I hadn’t missed the painful bits out. For the first time in my entire life, I had been completely truthful about where my emotions and head had been at, for the last decade. I thought maybe I should be feeling like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders, but I didn’t. I just felt weird. Spaced almost.

The Dr in Chanel, or Dr. Chanel, as I will now call her, put her pen down to mark the end of the session and told me something which I will remember till the day I die.

‘When you’re stuck with a day, that is grey and lonely, you just stick out your chin, and grin, and saaaaaaayyyyyyyyyy, oooooooohhhhhh… the sun will come out tomorrow….’

Ok, she didn’t really. But it would have been fab if she had.

She wanted to admit me, (ooo the drama!) and I was up for it too, until she told me I would have no contact with the outside world for a week.
‘Take my mobile off me? I can’t live without my Iphone for seven days! No twitter at all? Are you insane??? I should get you committed woman!!’

 I err, I mean, obviously I would have missed Addison way too much, and I wouldn’t have been able to bear it! That goes without saying! Which is why I didn’t just say it first! It goes without saying do you hear? Of course I would miss him, I was just saying, you know that I err, oh sod it. 

So Daddy Warbux willing, I will be starting intensive day therapy in June, twice a week for a month. Group therapy, no less. (Oh dear.)

Hopefully after which, I will be a well-rounded, happy individual.

Stop laughing.

It could happen!

And Lexy lived happily ever after…. She went back to that bench in Disney World with The Irish one (who is ginger,) Addison and a photo of Doodle and got closure.  She now lives the billionaire lifestyle after wining Euro millions and sharing it with all her followers on Twitter. The woman is an angel.

Not in to fairytales? Is that too cheesy and end for you?

Well how about this then,

Driving home with my left wing mirror riding shotgun in the passenger seat was horrific, and although I am sure I barely use it, I really noticed how much I missed it, when it was no longer doing the job it had been destined for (much like my third nipple) especially on a four lane motorway, in rush hour (unlike my third nipple.)

But needless to say, I did safely make it home and collapsed on the sofa in a heap.

Three minutes later I realised I had left my Iphone at The Priory.

Now that is irony for you.

No Rest For The Crazy. (A tale of Woe)

There were three things that my Aunty Olive used to say to me as a child, her face shoved directly in to mine. (Personal space didn’t exist in those days.)

1)      Enjoy your school days; they are the best years of your life.

2)      Always wear nice underwear in case you are involved in an accident.

3)      The dentist is terrifying, so brush your teeth.

And 4) save me all your orange Smarties. (The woman was a mentalist so this one doesn’t really count.)

Apart from the last one, because I agree, orange Smarties are the tastiest, I just put it down to her being a boring old grown up who was a little bit bonkers.

School days are the best years of my life? Are you on glue old woman? (I didn’t actually say this to her, I was six at the time.) Have you seen my uniform? Do you think Grey is an attractive colour on me? Have you forgotten how awful school is? Have you forgotten how truly terrifying reading out loud is, in front of the whole class? Have you forgotten how cruel kids can be, when you are a little bit chubby, have a bowl hair cut and wear 3 inch thick glasses? Have you never met my Spanish teacher? Mrs Chandellor was a five foot nothing, battle-axe with a short blonde pony tail and a gaze that could turn you to stone. Now she was terrifying! Get a verb wrong and you had to stand at the front of the class with one foot in the dustbin while repeating the correct one over and over again. Get caught passing notes and you would get clobbered over the head with a wooden parrot on a stick. School days aren’t the best days of my life, Aunty Olive!! They are horrific!! 

And as time has gone by, my views on this have not changed as every grown up at the time suggested they would. I hated every second of my primary and secondary school career and to this day the very thought of it makes me positively shudder. The cool kids, shudder. The bullying kids, shudder. Patrick and Tony (the school ‘hot guys’ who looking back were total losers) making my life a living hell, shudder. The woman was wrong ok? WRONG!  

The nice underwear comment went way over my head and was completely forgotten about until I was circa the age of 24. I was working in a call centre attempting but failing miserably to sell ATM machines to news agents and other small businesses who really didn’t need them, when the stress of dealing with Mr Smith the butcher, must have got too much and I fainted and hit the deck.  I was rushed from the office in the back of an ambulance to the local A&E department.

On arriving I awoke, a little dizzy and a little mortified to find I would need a scan and would be staying in overnight for observation. As they passed me an open backed gown to wear, the somewhat now haunting words of my Aunty Olive crescendo’d around my head in surround sound, while a little bubble with her face emblazoned on it floated over my left shoulder. ‘Always wear nice underwear’ said her patronising voice. ‘In case you have an accident!’

Damn it. I should have listened. It was washing day. I was going commando.

That was an awkward conversation with the nurse, let me tell you. (And paper knickers, are Impossible to sleep in!)

The last one, used to baffle me. I mean, how can you be scared of a dentist? All he does is look in your mouth and then you get a sticker and a lollipop. You also get an afternoon off school if you are lucky enough! How can anybody be scared of the dentist? I never really understood.

Now I do.

I have had toothache for a while but having never been scared of the dentist wasn’t worried when on a preliminary visit the kind old dentist looked in my mouth, nodded and advised me with a kind shrug that I would need a root canal. ‘Don’t worry about it at all,’ he said, putting me at ease immediately. ‘It won’t hurt a bit.’
‘No Big deal,’ I happily responded looking around, ‘I will book my next appointment when I go downstairs. Can I have my Lollipop now?’

The weeks have passed and yesterday with my appointment looming, I realised that going to the dentist in the throes of the worst bout of stomach flu I have ever experienced probably wasn’t the best idea. However, a I was in so much pain, and as I am an idiot, I put these warning signals to the back of my mind and arrived at the dentist with time to spare.

As I sat down in the waiting room, I was surprised to feel a few butterflies in my stomach. Was this another bout of the runs? No it couldn’t be! I had nothing in my stomach! It must be nerves! What is up with me? I thought. Root canal is nothing! That is what everyone has said. Compared to child-birth Root canal is nothing!

I sat pondering this for a few moments, until with a short gasp the penny dropped. Compared to CHILDBIRTH?? Everything is a doddle compared to sodding CHILDBIRTH! Oh my god this is going to hurt isn’t it?! I looked around, a mild panic culminating in my bowels.

‘Ooo dentistssss are terrriiifyyyingggg, you should have brusssheeed your teeethhh’ my Aunty Olive whispered in my ear, her head floating around in front of my eyes.

Oh shut up you old bag. I’ll be fine.

‘Pardon?’ The receptionist barked, snapping her head up to meet my eyes.

Had I spoken out loud?!?!?  ‘Nothing’ I laughed self-consciously  ‘just talking to myself again.’

She looked back down at her computer , thankfully but I didn’t miss her rolling her eyes for good measure. Bitch.  

What proceeded to happen over the next hour is honestly something I am not proud of and can only be truly understood and appreciated if you think back to those old carry on films.

No my breasts did not pop out of my top and no there was no Kenneth Williams camping it up in the waiting room, but as my name was called and I began my assent up the steep stairs towards the operating room, my heart began to pound and for every step I took, my stomach flu got the better of me, as a little wind escaped from my over troubled tummy. I was walking with a trumping soundtrack, totally against my will.

Reaching the top of the stairs, clenching like a mad woman with a red face, and dreading looking the receptionist in the eye on my return, I was met with an Italian looking model type. My mouth dropped open and I prayed I wasn’t about to greet him in a runny bum scented cloud of perfume.

‘Cam in’ He said in an Italian, cockney accent. ‘Itss Lexeeee, isn’t it? I can see from Dr Hamilton, that you need a filling and a raout canal. He isn’t here today, so I will be piforming di proceeedddurrre, which one would you like mee to doo today?’

His over pronunciation immediately reminded me of Allo Allo and my mind went in to overdrive. I cannot laugh at this man, for this man is too sexy, but how can I allow this man in my mouth, when I will undoubtedly bite his finger off from laughing if he speaks?

‘Yes, Ai need both’ I stuttered like an idiot, and for some reason in a god awful Jamaican school of comedy voices accent. What the hell is wrong with me? ‘Noice to meet yao,’ I continued, sounding like a total eejit, while following him in to the room and smiling at the dental nurse. ‘Ai fink I need you to look at my canal. I mean,’ I gasped flustered ‘AI fink I need you to take a look up my canal,’ Oh the humiliation of being nervous! ‘ Ai mean I think I need you to do my canal. It hurts.’ I managed to revert back to my normal voice just in time to catch his eyes widen and a look of total confusion pass across his features.

‘Where a youuu frommm?’ His eyebrows knotted, in confusion.

‘From ere,’ I laughed, now for some reason, speaking in the worst French comedy accent you have ever heard ‘ I just get a bit cuckoo when I’m nervuuusse’ I giggled like a school girl.

This was not going well.

He looked at me like I was suffering with a brain disorder and the dental nurse, who must have seen this behaviour a hundred times off nervous women in the face of this dental Adonis, just smirked and turned around.

‘Ok, Lexeeeee,’ he sighed, having also clearly seen this a few times and probably thinking he should move back to Italy ‘Pleaz lie back an open wide so I can ave a loooook.’  

I popped my bag down on the chair opposite and climbed on to his operating chair like a dog would climb up on to a sofa. Why I didn’t just walk around the chair and plonk my arse down before swinging my legs up, like any normal person would, I don’t know.  I had spoken to him in three comedy accents against my will, and now found myself on all fours, facing him on his dental chair.

All I can say in my defence is, I am a nightmare when I am nervous, I lose all control and my brain does horrible things on purpose to embarrass me. If you couple this with the fact I have been operating on autopilot for months, and then coming to, in the face of this model dentist, you must be able to understand? I had totally sizzled all the connections to rational thought and was now a rogue mother who was not on the edge, but who had fallen over the edge and was clearly losing her mind.

He watched me turn over and finally lie back with a confused expression before asking me if I was ok. Again.

‘Not really,’ I sighed trying not to look him in the eye. ‘I have a terrible stomach flu and I am very nervous.’

He recoiled.

Up until yesterday I wouldn’t have been able to fully describe what the word recoil actually looks like. But now I could.

‘Ok’ he said a little nervously, now clearly understanding where the smell was coming from ‘let’s get started, you aren’t allergic to anything are you?’  He added as an afterthought before pulling the biggest needle I have ever seen, from behind his back.
‘No’ I almost screamed, seeing the full girth of the needle for the first time. ‘I’m not allergic, but I don’t like pain and I hate having things thrust in my mouth.’  

Yes I actually used the word thrust. Against my will I had turned in to a walking, talking Mills and Boon novel. But, hey! At least I hadn’t said it in a comedy accent.

‘You will be fine,’ He smiled kindly as if to a child ‘this won’t hurt a bit.’ (That’s what they all say. I thought to myself.)

As it turns out, it didn’t hurt a bit. It hurt a bloody lot. But after it was done he sent me back down to the waiting room for five minutes while the anaesthesia kicked in.

Is this normal? Because, I have never heard of a dentist sending you out of the room before to wait, but to be honest I can’t blame him. After an introduction like that, he was probably thinking twice about ever allowing me back in.

On the way back down the crazy steep stairs I went dizzy and felt my heart speed up. I had just had a shot of god knows what, and this woman probably heard me farting.  ‘I feel really dizzy’ I gasped to the same receptionist, ‘is this normal?’  

‘Have you just had anaesthetic?’ she replied boredly without even looking up. (Which means she probably hadn’t heard me trumping. Winner.)

‘Yes’ I said hopping from one foot to the other, trying to stave off a panic attack.

‘There is adrenalin in anaesthetic so it is completely normal to feel like that.  It will pass’ she said before returning to her click, click, clicking. (Nails on a keyboard, not in a district 9 alien, you fucking prawn! type way.)

Now having spent the evening previous watching ‘Get him to the Greek’ (which by the way if you haven’t seen, you really should. Not usually my thing, as I am not a big Russell Brand fan, but it was hilarious) I immediately thought adrenalin? I need a furry wall! Unfortunately for me it appeared I had also said this out loud!

‘You need a what?’ the woman looked back up at me with her finger undoubtedly poised on a panic button under the desk.
‘A furry wall’ I stupidly repeated. ‘I’ve had a Jeffrey!’ before cracking up laughing and forgetting myself again.

I would like to tell you things got better from here on in, and that I acted normally for the rest of the visit, but they didn’t and I didn’t.

When he called me back up, I walked back in and noticed he had put on some music. Funk soul brother was quietly playing from the corner of the room and as I lay down and prepared to open wide (oooerrr)  the dental nurse passed me a pair of orange glasses which could easily have passed for full on raver specs. Do I need to tell you what I did next or can you guess?

Small box, big box, fish. That’s right.

Nobody laughed except me.

He had just reached for the drill a while later, when there was an almighty crash of thunder and the room was lit by a bright spark of lightening. I had a mouth full of cotton wool and spit sucking equipment, and both the hot dentist and the nurse were peering over me and in to my mouth. In other circumstances this may have been funny , but all that came to mind was some horrible horror film, especially as he then proceeded to start up the drill.

My  heart started to pound as I imagined him butchering me on the chair, and my mind began to lose it when tubular bells came on the radio. (I really need to stop watching horror films!) My mouth started twitching, my heart was racing out of control and I ended up grabbing his wrist, which was attached to the hand holding the drill, making it’s way towards my mouth and blinking furiously.

I was on the verge of a panic attack, the hot dentist was a murderer! He was going to drill my brain open!!! (He wouldnt find much in there to be honest.) But who would look after Addison? Who would drive my car home? (The things you think of, honestly!)

It was only when I caught the dental nurse starting to snigger that I got a handle on myself and let go of the poor man’s hand.

He checked I was ok again, to which I nodded and shut my eyes just in time to feel a huge movement of air in my lower abdomen, as the drill began vibrating my head like Jelly on a dildo. (I havent done this, but I saw Heston do it, ok? And believe me, if you put a dildo in Jelly. The Jelly wobbles… Anyway. Moving on.)

Panic and stomach flu? Evidently not, a good combination.

The rest of the appointment was spent clenching my butt cheeks in an attempt not to fart.

I came home with a root canal in place and my dignity flying around somewhere in the wind, on Salford crescent.

I have to go back next week to get it checked. I seriously hope that A) my stomach is better and B) the hot dentist has decided to move back to Italy and it is the nice old man again, or god knows what I may end up doing to embarrass myself.

My Aunty Olive, it turns out, was right. The dentist can be a terrifying prospect.

Today I have an appointment at the priory.

The post natal depression isn’t lifting and thankfully my medical insurance has kicked in.

The doctor I am meeting is called Dr Letshopeidontembarrasmyselfagain. She is a consultant Psychiatrist.

I will not mention yesterday. (Or I will probably be admitted!)

Wish me luck.

Or her actually. She probably needs it more than me.  

Now, where did I leave that Senakot?