I’ve always written diaries. Since I was about eight years old. It’s compulsive, I think. One of my most over-used diary entries was ‘Forgot what did.’ In those days I usually wrote fairly straightforward chronological accounts of my days, as I got older the occasional, slightly embarrassed emotional confidence slipped in here and there. Now my diary is usually crammed with emotional baggage, with the occasional awkward reference to ‘what I did today’. I decided to write this as a blog mainly because it’s easier than writing in a diary. Writing longhand makes my wrist ache. I’m not particuarly bothered if anyone reads it or not. If you do, I hope you’ll find it at least slightly less tedious than watching Big Brother or watching paint dry.
PS. I suppose I should explain the title. I’m eighteen weeks pregnant right now. This is my fourth pregnancy, the previous three with my ex-boyfriend all ended in miscarriage at eight weeks. This one is kind of different. I’m not with the daddy and he doesn’t want to know. So I’m psyching up for single motherhood in my late thirties, when I had pretty much resigned myself to the idea that I would never have children, and was actually just about to leave my job and go travelling round the world for nine months.
Nine months of growing a new human being inside my belly, instead! Life is pretty weird and wonderful at times, isn’t it?
