To all of you who remarked that I ‘only’ had seven pounds of misery-weight to work off, bless your dear dear hearts, but it was seven EXTRA pounds on top of err, *counts on fingers, blenches* the enormous quantity of basic lardiness I am gifted with anyway, and which I had managed to whittle down a bit before October struck (all that hard work gone for a burton, gah, damn). So, you know, I have merely veered from Fat to Fatter, and not in the least from Fine to Oops Tight Trousers. If only.
Sorry. Just, all the ‘well done on only gaining seven pounds’ was making me feel like an almighty fraud.
To the dear In Real Life friend who doesn’t know about this blog, and who got pregnant just before Christmas, and who, crucially, didn’t spend January miscarrying, the F*ceb**k (ooh, sudden longing to spell it ‘fuckb**k) updates about your puffy ankles are cute and funny and I’d sympathise but as I think at this point I’d even kill (well, maybe not kill. Maim? Maim bad people only?) to have your ankle problems myself right now, I do not know how to deal with you. I do not really like being this pea-green-with-envy person who can’t deal with you. But, you know, you’re less than two weeks ahead of where I should have been if Zombryo had survived, so pea-green it is. Sorry. [Memo to self. Stay away from fuckb**k whenever drink has been taken. This is important].
On which note, to all those bloggers out there who are heavily pregnant and planning nurseries, or who have their precious baby now, I’m sorry I don’t really comment any more. It’s not that I don’t care or have stopped reading or am in any way Not Pleased with, at, by, for or over you. In fact, I am usually extremely pleased for you, and your blog makes me smile. It’s just… I have nothing to say. And I don’t really want to say anything either. Especially to those of you who are trying to forget just how miserable the whole Getting There process was. It is, after all, an unmitigated Good Thing that you, having scrambled out of the Trenches at last, are cantering away from them as fast as your heels can carry you.
To H, I’m sorry I’m angry and miserable so much of the time. You are very kind and patient with me, and I do appreciate it, I really do.
To all the people I have spectacularly failed to email in a timely and mannerly fashion, I am dreadful and, again, I am sorry.
And to all the people who are longing to see me be more cheerful and hopeful, I’m sorry about that too. I promise to sort out that shortlist of local therapists as soon as I get back from Wales.