Hey. Hey you! Did you just stifle a yawn? Am I keeping you awake? Did this pop up on your newsfeed, and you thought, Her Again. Nudge your neighbour, you know, the one with that kid? Avoid her gaze, avoid her gaze. Ah crap, it’s Facebook. Awwwwkward. I know because I’m boring myself at the moment. The kind of boring where you trace your gumline with your tongue over and over whilst staring into the middle distance. Rufus is in hospital. Ill. Again.
It’s not anything show stopping, it’s an unidentified infection, which made itself identifiable by a high temperature that no amount of nudity or calpol could touch. Rufus wasn’t especially out of sorts, in fact, you might describe him as chipper. His blood work told us something different, and whilst I’m well aware that Rufus is capable of some odd feats of ingenuity, I don’t think he’s mastered faking a blood test.
I’ve been sitting there, watching, waiting for some material. But there’s nothing new, the kids squabble in their own way over toys, Justin Fletcher reigns supreme in our little cell. Dulcie is licking the floor or attempting to pull herself to stand, all in order to peer into the infectious waste bin for her next meal. Other people’s kids right? Dull.
I do try. I’ve got a dozen good poo stories, a handful of tales about stereo screaming, but I realise it’s audience is perhaps a little narrow. But I’m scared, so I want to do a Yoohoo! Don’t forget about us. It’s sunny out this weekend, but it’s hard to get a tan through vertical blinds. I’m scared and I’m worried, of course about the boy. Even a little about his sister. I’m scared our lives are changing, that some early prophecy is becoming true. That we are now in and out of hospital, a lot, and like my mobile signal whilst in there, we’re fading in and out. I can’t make that funny.
Today marks Are You Kiddingney’s birthday. One year. Do you feel like you’ve been to Provence? I do. I don’t really know why or how the time felt right, whatever the greater plan for me or the Ds is, this felt part of it. I bow down to a power greater than mine, who somehow has nutshelled everything. Probably not making nutshell a verb mind you.
I am just going to be polite and silly, and point at cool things.
Caitlin Moran, Moranthology
Who knows what the next year holds, but mark my words there will be an overshare or two here. So I hope that keeps you interested.