I've been quiet on the blogging front in January, mainly down to being preoccupied and manically busy. More of that later.
My attempts to write this blog have been hindered by various obstacles thrown at me from the Gods of Quality Writing, to try and to stop me actually publishing this post.
I am writing this on an East Coast train from London to the delightful city of Edinburgh. I've been awake since 5am since I was too drunk to even consider packing last night, after traditional end of month work drinks. The last time I packed whilst intoxicated, I took seven vests and no cardigans to Manchester for meetings. I actually employed the hysterical phrase "But it's an emergency!" to the bemused-then-frightened Primark security guard who initially told me I was too late to enter the shop. I think he recognised the genuine determination in my eyes, not at all undermined by my friend falling about with laughter in the background.
So, I learnt from this and got up super early to prepare my case. I am VERY excited about the visit to Edinburgh to see the Blonde, the Geordie and the Grumpy Scot. I felt great this morning, London was bright and it's always enjoyable I think to be up and about before the city awakens properly, lost souls dragging themselves home after Friday nights out; and the City roads unusually clear from traffic.
However this did not last. Despite my early morning tea, roughly halfway up a King's Cross station staircase with a bulging suitcase; my hangover said hello. People pushed past as I huffed up the stairs, scowling at other commuters and cursing anyone who got in my way. I was early for my train so I hung around the concourse. I encountered toilet cubicles not designed with luggage in mind (HELLO it's a station?! Anyone?), a man with a clear substance abuse problem and on a vicious-looking comedown who kept eyeing me up, and loads of children. I mean, everywhere.
Now, I am not anti-kids at all. I have a niece and three young nephews and they're an absolute joy. Even when they're being little bastards. It's entertaining for me as an Auntie because they're not mine. I can give them back when they start kicking off about sharing toys, or when you ask why they felt the need to refer to their unfortunately masculine female swimming teacher as 'Su-Bo', to their face. (That genuinely happened. My sister thought it best to move him into a different swimming class.)
The thing that bugs me about not kids persay, but people with kids, is their acceptance that it is ok to inflict them on me. It's not. Especially in a cold station when I really could do with a little more sleep and a big dose of water, paracetamol and espresso. I choose to not have had a baby. I am very much in child-bearing age but I don't want a child right now. I don't need to make allowances for anyone else.
What really irritates me about some parents (not all, I admit) is their lack of regard for you as a single woman who chooses not to have a grubby toddler leaving sticky fingerprints on her glasses. I choose to spend my money on gigs and socialising and selfish things. Why does having a child automatically allow you to think you're better then everyone else? Why should you push in front of me on the escalator? Why is it ok for you to hold me up because you have a daisy-chain of spacky kids trailing after you, with no spacial awareness, getting in my bloody way? Having a child doesn't make you better than me. It probably just means you're not very good at using contraception.
So having refrained myself from drop-kicking tots onto train tracks on my way to the train, I settle down at my table with my coffee, my tunes and the lovely free wi-fi so I can crack on with some writing.... only to find that Google has inexplicably made my blogger interface Swedish. Two problems. One, I don't speak Swedish. Two, I can't remember my sodding password.
With some frantic sighing and an internal monologue that made Malcolm Tucker sound like a primary school teacher, I finally reset everything. Just in the nick of time. There was a hot coffee which was about to meet the fate of being flung down a train aisle by a hysterical Northern girl. Now, everything seems ok. I can write some more, the sun is stunning over the snowy southern English countryside and I am heading to Edinburgh to see some dear friends.
Now, if only that screaming tot in this carriage would shush.
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