Blogfest bound

I know I’ve been a bit off the boil on the blog lately. Work’s been killing me with late nights and irate senior management, and my reaction – to get trollied last Friday night with Reprobate Kate on a rare night when the kids were at Nana Zoo’s, ended up with me crawling in at dawn, spangly-eyed, with a faithful cold sore erupting days later. I’m too old for all that malarkey these days, although, Christ knows, I needed some fun. And it shows. My forehead wrinkle has noticeably deepened this week, despite last night’s four a.m. application of a Frownie, and this morning’s touché éclat (the Boots’ own version) can’t even touch my eye bags. I’ve worn leggings as day wear on more than one occasion, something I only do when things are getting a bit much, as comfort over style becomes an increased priority in getting through the days; including, I may add today, teamed, in case anyone has their eye out for me, with a fetching maroon scarf, matching bag, and a slather of lipstick to cover the cold sore. I’ve had better weeks if I’m honest. My step sister’s best friend jumped off a building this week. I didn’t know her, but my dad’s suddenly concerned enough about me to send a couple of texts, amid a confession that he thinks himself to be manic depressive. Suicide Tuesday stretched into Wednesday and then Thursday as I battled to hold my mood together for my boss and the kids, unleashing my own torment in sleepless midnight howls at poor old Tom. He’s been a saint. I’m surprised I’ve not been served papers, if I’m honest, but his stoicism is one of the reasons I married him.

Today’s he’s got a fretful Jonah, who last night promised to go down on the Queen in a hashed up Cub investiture that required him to lie about his non- belief in God. I filmed it tearfully, his stern little eyes twitching earnestly, yet firmly refusing to promise something he could not. He’s grumpy this morning. I’ve taken the iPad to blogfest, and even preparations for tonight’s bonfire gathering are not enough to soothe this disruption to normal weekend service. I reminded him about good turns and doing one’s best, prissy, patriarchal scouting solutions to a fucked up world, that I can barely pay lip service too. But it seemed, temporarily, to buck him up, despite my own private sense that the organisation is preparing World War Three’s generation of obedient drone-fodder. I left them clearing leaves from the AstroTurf, relieved to be stepping out in to the smoked sunshine, and a world that’s just my own, even if, like everything else I do, it’s all about them. Here I am, back in the building where I bit the bullet and went back to work, freelancing for the Guardian four years ago. It feels odd, coming back a different person. Older, wiser, more self assured, for all my wobbles. A person with an identity that I have carved into this blog.

I expect to return home to toffee apples and sausages, a bunch of kids and their parents and spiced cider. It’s all good, I suppose, except for the forecast of squally weather ahead.