main blogorrhoea	Monday, February 28 grrr! Jack being very butch yesterday afternoon, fettling his bike in the snow. Just as well Alison and I went for our training ride in the morning, when it barely snowed at all. And, à propos of nothing particular other than that she's utterly gorgeous, here's a picture commemorating Rebecca's first ride in her big girl carseat. Sunday, February 27 the price of everything Bug now a few squid richer as her Child Trust Fund voucher arrived this week. General Election in May, anyone? Figured out what's been bothering me about Shameless. Comedy-drama set on a Manchester council estate, yeah? But in the past season and a half, nary a baseball cap, Burberry or otherwise, to be seen. Saturday, February 26 i don't normally do this sort of thing... ... but OK, the 10 things meme, viz. What have I done that I suspect you haven't? X-rayed a man who’d shot himself through the roof of the mouth Lived in a garret in Paris and kept my milk cool by hanging it out of my seventh storey window Travelled to Montreal to interview one of the authors I wrote on for my PhD Had my PhD conferred in Latin Hitchhiked around Southern Ireland by myself because public transport was so sporadic Boogied while in labour and sucking on a gas and air pipe Performed in Kings College Chapel, the Sheldonian, the Albert and Festival Halls. Completed the London-Cambridge charity cycle race. Unless you're Jack. Walked around London at midnight in my bra, dressed as a belly dancer (also for charity). Unless you're Lisa Turned down a Commonwealth Scholarship because it wasn’t quite the one I wanted Friday, February 25 other people's bookshelves Current reading: The Book Of Illusions, by Paul Auster, one of the stack Naomi has lent me. So far (about a hundred or so pages in), so compelling. And disconcerting: it's about grief and the destruction of the self, but also about life imitating art, or at least the movies. Will be fascinating to see whether/how he brings the two themes together. Movie theme illustrated by subtle string of pastiches moving from silent comedy short to film noir and, when I last put it down, what looked like the beginnings of a road movie. Although I suspect that it's the sort of book that, next time I pick it up (hopefully in the next hour or so if the Bug will consent to a morning nap) may have turned into something else again. Thursday, February 24 bgurk! More pictures of the littlest Durbin available here. Better not stare at them too long - can feel myself coming over all broody again. Quick: think, think! Ummm ... sleep deprivation! meconium! bleeding nipples! educational TV at 4 am! Gah! dammit it's not working. Congratulations again on your beautiful son, Lisa and Paul. Who is worth all of the above, and a whole world more besides. Wednesday, February 23 Yeah. What he said. saussuration Fits and starts of snow yesterday but it didn't settle. During lunch I turned the Bug's highchair around to face the window so she could watch the thickening flurry. At the sight of all the white dots whirling about she giggled, flapped her arms and pronounced 'Da-da'. Must dash - off to 'Baby Signing' at the local library. Hope they don't teach her any rude gestures. Tuesday, February 22 do I hear an amen? Welcome little Jack William Durbin. Congratulations Mr and Mrs D, and, what's more, well done Lisa. Ten pounds. Blimey. Just as well you had a Caesarean, girl, or they'd still be stitching you back together. deep structure At lunch the other day Rebecca bounced up and down in her high chair exclaiming 'Wee! Wee! Wee!' as I fed her segments of clementine one by one. Unless what she was actually saying was 'Oui! Oui! Oui!' Is it possible that I have given birth to a francophone? Could explain her apparent obsession with the Surrealists. Happy baby-arriving thoughts to Lisa and Paul, who as I type are still in the thick of things, and sounds like it's been a long haul too. Will refrain from offering suggestions for names, 'cept to say that Cruz is already taken, I'm afraid, guys. Monday, February 21 clue hammer And we're back. While ntl's phone support staff may try the patience, I've always found their technicians to be pretty clueful, as well as polite and cheery. On Saturday evening Jack presented me with a stunning and sparkly green amber necklace which I wore to our anniversary dinner at a place claiming to be Britain's top 50 gastropubs (NTBCW gastropods). Here we enjoyed a sumptuous repast of the sort you should only eat once or twice in a decade. We finished with a chocolate truffle cake that as far as I could tell was constituted entirely of ganache and was so rich that I was unable to eat the chocolate truffles that came with the coffee. So it's back on the lentils for the rest of the month. Had planned a training ride for Sunday morning, by way of atonement, but when we woke up it was snowing, and having renounced both masochism and machismo, I decided to stay indoors with a second cup of coffee and a good book while upstairs, J and the Bug dozed on the futon together. Finished Philip Roth's Patrimony the other weekend: its vicarious exhibitionism made me profoundly uncomfortable. Of course, vexingly, I couldn't put the bloody thing down. Will get around to Portnoy's Complaint at some stage, but in the meantime the ever-generous Naomi has lent me a stack of books. And I broke my 'no more buying books because we're going home in a few months' rule and picked up a couple real cheap in the Oxfam secondhand bookstore in Brighton, but don't tell anyone. Internet deprivation has also allowed me to finish The Accidental Tourist in fairly short order. Although am still digesting it, and wondering if missing, dead or spectral children - one of the central preoccupations, incidentally, of my PhD - feature regularly in Anne Tyler's work. Which means I need to read more of her. Saturday, February 19 as soon as we are sure of what is normal anyway So it seems in fact that Rebecca's first word is 'Da-da'. Sample conversation: Rebecca: Da-da! Da-da! Da-da! Da-da! Jack: Da-da! Mar-cel-Du-champ! Ap-pro-pri-a-tion-ism! Although I think it has a wider semantic field than that, signifying anything from 'Please may I have another segment of clementine?' to 'The phone bill! Delicious!' It's our fifth wedding anniversary tomorrow, or, taking Pommy time into account and allowing for the fact that we were married in NZ, today. According to Jack the traditional gift for the fifth is wood. Hmmm. Moving swiftly on, now that my Net access has been so cruelly curtailed (am typing this in the Cambridge Central Library during my weekly Quality Mummy Time) I have, of course, come up with the perfect domain name. Tell you? You must be joking. But it does seem to be available. Jack says we can borrow a mate's 'puter tomorrow and register it. The nice NTL man is coming to lay hands on the broadband connection on Monday afternoon. Allegedly. In the meantime, in Huntingdon, Great Things are afoot, and further bulletins will be made available as events warrant. In the meantime, could everyone please shut the fuck up about the hunting? Thanks. And happy anniversary babe - I love you very much. Tuesday, February 15 dog star Rebecca's new sound is 'weeb weeb weeb'. Or, possibly, 'bwee bwee bwee'. She's also taken to wailing 'Ma-ma ma-ma ma-ma...' when distressed, and chirruping 'Da da! Da da!' when happy. Figures. We visited Lisa and Jasper yesterday. Being a young labrador, Jasper's generally an exuberant dog, much given to bouncing at people. However, he was astonishingly gentle and patient with Rebecca as she chased him around the room hanging off his collar and trying to grab his shiny black nose and whiskers. You could see him thinking 'that's the funniest-lookin' puppy I've ever seen. Where's its tail?' and from time to time he would give her an exploratory lick. Mind you, her head is invariably a rich source of nutrients despite my efforts with a damp face flannel after each meal. Monday, February 14 brighton rocks Brighton was wonderful even though I cunningly managed to put my back out moments before we drove down there by running around the house with Rebecca under one arm and a truckload of baby equipment under the other plus the week's washing (see previous post re multivitamin montage) muttering 'I am strong, I am invincible, I am ... suddenly in intense pain. Ow. Ja-aack!' Still there are worse occasions to be unable to do any lifting than a weekend spent surrounded by broody baby enthusiasts: every time I looked around for a pair of willing arms to put her into there was a chorus of 'Let me!' 'No no, I insist!' followed by a brief scuffle. Said baby enthusiasts being our gracious hosts the Trickeys, Naomi and Marv, and fellow guests Nik, aka Nicola 'Fags' Hobson, and her partner Andy. Naomi, Nik and I met in Paris a dozen years ago when Nik was a teaching assistant, I was a teaching assistant and au pair and Naomi was an au pair, so large parts of the weekend were spent in cackling reminiscence while the lads looked on with nervous expressions. Impossible to describe a year spent living in a Parisian garret without sounding suffocatingly wanky so don't worry, I won't try, but my word it was fun. As was Brighton, where we marvelled at the exuberant tackiness of the Prince Regent's party pad, walked on the Sussex Downs, ate delicious vegetarian food, admired the Regency terraces and strolled along the sea front at sunset. Rebecca has not had so much fuss since our trip to NZ and now that she's stuck at home with boring old Mummy for company she's feeling it keenly so I'd better go overcompensate. Sunday, February 13 you need a montage As Rebecca has grown from tiny helpless baby into inquistive and increasingly mobile small person, I've noticed a shift in my attitude to time - it became less a question of filling the day and more of Packing More In. These days, haring about in my soccer mom stripey shirt and sneakers with a wriggling almost-toddler under one arm, I catch myself feeling like a montage from a multivitamin commercial. The only thing we fear is boredom, which is not bloody likely. Just got back from Brighton. Brighton rocked. More on this tomorrow as am utterly knackered from all the fun. There will be photos. Friday, February 11 travelling hopefully Major task ju jour: pack stuff for weekend trip to see Naomi and Marv in Brighton, a trip that has already required the purchase of a booster seat aka portable high chair, which attaches to a regular dining chair. Rationale for purchase being that we're planning a fair number of farewell catchup trips around these isles before heading off home to Newzild, which should justify the alarming expense. Manufacturers of moulded plastics never had it so good. *wistful sigh* I remember when a weekend away entailed little more than shoving a spare pair of knickers into a backpack and wandering across town to the railway station. Thursday, February 10 shrive, shrove, shriven Went to a mate's place the other night for pancakes as it was Shrove Tuesday, a festival that speaks volumes about the British character: while everyone else in Christendom is mardi gras-ing down with their bad selves, over here the carnavalesque debauchery extends to ... pancakes. Fun evening though - Sharron's kids' playroom resembles F.A.O. Schwartz and I got thoroughly hyped up on mini creme egg pancakes and, after several near-fatal attempts to master the pogo stick, ended up thrashing seven shades of virtual shit out of the electronic punchbag/sparring partner. Most rewarding but alas Jack won't let me get one. Robert and Kathie came for lunch yesterday - we went to the park and played on the swings. Getting there was half the fun, as wee Robert is now toddling alongside his pushchair, pausing to gaze in wonderment on each tree, leaf, bus, motorbike, car, fence, moggy and every other object in the physical universe, while Rebecca leaned out of her buggy and flapped her arms excitedly at him. Wednesday, February 9 love me, i'm a liberal Enjoyed Kowloon Tong with one fairly hefty reservation: its racial politics made me a bit queasy. Main characters a couple of Brits living in Hong Kong just before the handover, and the novel depicts the effect of their bigotry, hypocrisy and isolationism on their business and personal dealings. It's well-written and entertaining, but it seems to me Theroux enjoys giving voice to their cloddish prejudices a little too much. One might even say revels in. This is as much a question of authorial technique as politics. Right, must go and chisel strawberry porridge off kitchen, Bug. Tuesday, February 8 Dearie, dearie me. If she's not careful, Cherie's going to get run out of town on a rail. down with the kids Before we had Rebecca, children's television, even if it was only on in the background at someone else's place, used to make me feel slightly anxious and itchy. Now, not only have I learned that Roly Mo is not in fact a Fimble but a sort of psychedelic mole-creature, but I even find CBeebies in general strangely soothing. Is this mellowing, or regression? And another thing: why don't they show Sesame Street over here? How is Rebecca going to learn about cooperation? Monday, February 7 what the romans did for us Another training ride with Alison yesterday, this time southeast of Cambridge via Fulbourn. 20 miles all up, would have been fractionally shorter but for a brief episode of geographical embarrassment on the Roman Road. Which was slick with mud so as usual returned home resembling the Swamp Thing, to a rapturous welcome from the Bug and a cup of hot sweet tea which may have been the most delicious and refreshing drink I have ever drunk. Sunday, February 6 brazil He thought: Trust her, so common herself, to be a snob about accents. Yet it was in character and as English as her home-made cardigan and the way her clicking dentures made her whistle, for it was a shop assistant's way of mocking - the self-inflicted snobbery of sneering at people just like herself, on behalf of her equally snobbish customers. - Paul Theroux, Kowloon Tong (London, 1997). Got a Reader's Ticket from the UL yesterday: something I've been meaning to get around to for the last three years. While I was a student I mostly loathed the place, not just because of its spectacular ugliness (think all that is worst in Victorian Redbrick Rectangular Phallic), its institutional unwillingness to let its users anywhere near any of its books, or the fact that its dim, exiguous corridors are roamed by a permanent population of crumbling lunatics, but rather because the mere sight of the place made me feel guilty. Even cycling past it at night on the way home from the pub, long after its doors had shut, I would be momentarily breathless with guilt that I wasn't in it, working. Mind you the collective freakishness of the frontline staff was enough to put the bluest of stocking off scholarship. When I was a student, said staff included the Elvis Impersonator, Jabba the Hutt's Little Sister and of course Bertha Mason, whose all of whose alarming aspects were enhanced by the yellowish, aquatic light that struggled through the entrance hall. A friend of mine once surmised that the reason it was so dimly lit was that the staff had not been engaged in the usual manner but had in fact been grown in vats, to which they returned at the end of each day, after closing time. This must also explain why three quarters of the building is off limits: otherwise one might force open a narrow, dusty door upon a scene similar to Sigourney Weaver's discovery of the botched clones of herself in Alien: Resurrection. Now, at a safe distance of three years, I can indulge a gentle, amnesiac nostalgia for the place, even its mutant guardians and roaming crumblies, and most particularly for its collections, which, due to its status as a legal deposit library, are exhaustive. (And the scones are excellent too.) Yesterday when I went in for my card I was taken aback at being politely welcomed by a dust-coloured man with a comb-over who issued me with a ticket and let me loose on the collections in five minutes flat. Although once I got stuck into the online catalogue I was brought up short by the discovery that the books I wanted to borrow were in the stacks and only available for perusal in the West Room. Bollocks. At this rate I may end up buying the bloody things. Still, I came away with Philip Roth's Patrimony, which I'm looking forward to reading. And the library card was free, and is good for 10 years, so that's my holiday reading sorted out during any future return trips to the UK between now and Rebecca's eleventh birthday. Saturday, February 5 à la recherche Given that Schadentelly is one of the most egregious wastes of human endeavour in the history of what we are pleased to call civilisation, how ironic is it that there is now a Schadentelly programme devoted to time management? Coffee yesterday with Juliet, a mate from college, and her wee one, six-month-old Ishbel. Ishbel has very round cheeks, the colour of Red Delicious apples, a thick brush of dark brown hair, huge, sea-green eyes and a tiny, pursed mouth. For some reason she reminds me of a baby robin. As is customary at meetings of new(ish) mothers, tales of birth and pregnancy were shared and compared in the manner of crusty old veterans swapping war stories. But in a strictly non-competetive, caring feminine way, of course. Friday, February 4 mauvaise foi Have already given up on the Jane Smiley 10 pages in, having gagged on her prose style, which is bloody unreadable, I don't care what the Pulitzer people think of her genius. Characterisation and idiom be buggered, no narrative, not even a first-person one, should be riddled with the word 'nice'. Life is too short to read bad books: it's gone back to the library, and I've got a Paul Theroux instead. I'm sure he won't wind me up. Speaking of books, thanks to the lovely people at SureStart Rebecca received her BookStart bag yesterday. And not just because we live in a sink of social deprivation and depravity SureStart area, either - every baby in the UK gets one, apparently. So now we have a sturdy library bag full of free goodies, including board books and crayons, as well as a swatch of pamphlets explaining why reading books is a Good Thing. Hurray for free stuff! Although am going to hide the crayons for now as I suspect Rebecca will attempt to devour them. Thursday, February 3 none the verse The Yorkshiremen on the bus say 'Eee, by gum,' 'Eee, by gum,' 'Eee, by gum' The Yorkshiremen on the bus say 'Eee, by gum,' All day long! The Australians on the bus drink tins of beer, tins of beer, tins of beer, The Australians on the bus drink tins of beer, All day long! The New Zealanders on the bus are irritated at being mistaken for Australians, Irritated at being mistaken for Australians, Irritated at being mistaken for Australians, The New Zealanders on the bus are irritated at being mistaken for Australians, All day long! Must go - Rebecca is trying to grab the Fimbles. You know, the ones that live inside the telly? Uh oh, now we've accidentally hit the off button. Where did the brightly-coloured moving things go? Oh well, washing machine's on - off we go to the kitchen for some real entertainment. Wednesday, February 2 lunchtime doubly so Just finished The Body Artist (Don DeLillo, 2001). Creaky house on the edge of isolated salt marshes appropriately liminal space for a young, recently-widowed woman's spare, cryptic musings on the nature of space, memories and time, the latter of which is, she discovers, a relative concept. Who knew? Next up, for a change of pace, Jane Smiley, Good Faith (2003). Tried to read Moo (1995) years ago, couldn't get on with it, have decided to give Ms S another go. Must get arse into gear: Baby Rhyme Time in little over an hour. Tuesday, February 1 musings on mortality Heather: I think I'll have 'Must Overcompensate' engraved on my tombstone. Jack: No, what you'll have on your tombstone is 'I'll Be Up In A Minute.' Previously, in h-blog

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