Well now. My last post rather ratcheted up my stats counter. Over 300 hits in less than 24 hours. Normally I get about 150 to 200 the day I put up a fresh post. Oh ah.
(Incidentally, I went back and answered all the comments on that post. I keep meaning to respond more to comments. Um… oops?).
Nearly everyone thought I should send the post, or a letter based on the post, to the columnist and/or the newspaper concerned, which was flattering. And I considered it. Normally, The Observer allows comments on Mariella Frostrup’s advice columns, you see, and I could’ve signed up and commented there, perhaps. But on that particular article, they weren’t allowing comments, for once.
Perhaps this meant they knew it was a contentious issue that the general public couldn’t possibly be civil about (the General Public, have, after all, proved themselves to be utter cunts about infertility, especially safe behind the internet screen of anonymity (so cowardly utter cunts at that)). Perhaps they were protecting the original letter-writer. Perhaps the editor(s) thought that Ms Frostrup was ridiculously, smugly wrong and were protecting her from a kicking. Who knows.
Anyway, this does mean that if I do send a tidied-up version of the post, it’d have to be directly to the editors and/or directly to Ms Frostrup and, you know? I’ve put it on record here. It’s google-able. I’m not hiding. But I do not have the energy, the time, or the anything else, really, to get into a pissing-contest with a national newspaper and its columnists. Either they’d politely ignore my letter, which would annoy me, or they’d print it, and then ignore it, which would annoy me less, I suppose, or they’d respond, and I actually don’t want to deal with that. I do not want to read pusillanimous self-justifications or non-apologies or platitudes or ‘best wishes’ from these people. I do not want to be challenged back, especially not by someone who, say, has NOT been trying to have a child for years and had several miscarriages. Being challenged on this by the Smug Childed, oh, God, no, I think I’d have a psychotic break.
And anyway, I’m so fucking cross about the whole thing that I’d shame myself. There’s a Chinese proverb that says: ‘never write a letter while you are angry’. And by the time I stop being angry, writing in about it will be daft.
So. If any of you want to write in instead, be my guest. I’m too much of an apathetic jelly-fish at the moment.
Meanwhile, it’s Easter, I am eating again, so H brought me a very fancy and very sweet little easter egg, and then he spent this afternoon making a darling little roast dinner, poussin, asparagus, wild mushrooms, sort of thing. We have celebrated… I’m not sure what, exactly. After all, we’re both atheists. Chocolate? Spring? Each other?