8.45 am (half term holidays, awake at 6.45am)

Slept through the night, waking once not for a child’s fever but for the strangeness of dreams. I dreamt that I had borrowed a canal barge to sail down the Regents Canal in London, but had forgotten where I had left it. I woke up thinking that this anxiety was real.


Not much time to write as heading out on a day trip with family and friends to The Wild Boar Park in the Forest of Bowland, a place where you can sit a chick on your knee, feed a lamb, watch meer cats play, go on a tractor ride…. Making a flask of strong coffee, getting a picnic together, chocolate soya milkshakes, water,  bananas, donuts, smoked salmon and cream cheese bagels, chicken samosa, vegetable samosa, corn cakes, jaffa cakes, plums a feast of cultures colliding to please boy, man and woman.


Resentment and hurt and frustration boil under a thin veneer of getting along. Relationships are a tangled web of disappointment. I can’t describe the actualities, for fear of causing more arguments. Why do adults resort to arguing over small things, that probably don’t matter ?

My failure seems to be forgetting to empty the compost bin, but I don’t really think that it is about that. Or if it is about the compost bin, if I empty it will another argument replace the one that I have solved ? Living with another adult and looking after children for me completely erodes any romance, any joy, any excitement. I wonder if equality can exist and so does my partner. Always the other trying to fix fault. Always easy to fix blame. Always easier not to forgive, to brush aside, to clench your teeth, to turn away.

Working through a list of mundane routine and childcare and unemployment. Rejection and disappointment seeps out of my skin. It sweats and stinks and scares. It hates me and others hate me too, not for what I am, but for what I have become. Ineffectual. The rejection makes me want to run away to the city, running to the hills wouldn’t be much of an escape here. He probably feels the same, who knows, no one ever quite knows the truth of it, what really goes on inside another person’s mind and sometimes being honest or trying to communicate and reach out an olive branch to hold is no help at all. Plod on, plod on, forget, erase, continue. Try.


The day with the children plodded along, negotiating homework’s and reading with Syd, making peg dolls and playing drawing games with Naoise, supplying a constant stream of refreshments, trying to keep them off electronic devices as much as motherly possible, washing up, drying clothes, tidying, putting away, hoovering, maintaining, ironing out sibling rivalry.



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