Am I the only one?

disclaimer – if you did what I describe below, I apologise if I offend you. I’m sure there’s plenty about my own life and actions that is incomprehensible to you.

What is it that makes what may well be perfectly normal women in the 20s and 30s decide to don pink feathery cowboy hats, screech at a pitch that really only dogs can hear in public and drink enough alcohol to pickle themselves, all in the name of celebrating their ‘last night’ of singledom? (I say last night, but, let’s face it, this is usually over a weekend in the month or so before the wedding). I was standing at Newcastle train station on Friday lunch time, waiting for my train to Edinburgh when, through my (rather loud) music, I heard some exceptionally loud screeching and terrible singing. I couldn’t see what was making that racket because there was a train between me and them, but when the train moved, I saw 6 women staggering up the ramp, screeching, singing with alcohol in hand. Six. They were making enough noise for at least 12. Maybe it’s because I didn’t do it, but I genuinely don’t understand why it is necessary to do this in celebration of your impending marriage. Someone explain it to me, please?

So, yes, I was in Edinburgh over the weekend, for the BCUK Unconvention, the culmination of 12 months of hard work from the committee, of which I was chair. I say hard work, but really I don’t think I did very much to contribute this time round and I felt guilty getting compliments about the whole thing. A good weekend was had by all though, from all accounts, despite a bit of stress for us organisers in the days leading up to it all. We had 5 authors come and talk on Saturday, the main day, an author read one of his short stories on Friday night in the pub and we released loads of books around Edinburgh on Sunday. I spent the whole weekend worrying about how much everyone else was enjoying it and not really seeing Edinburgh or getting much time to myself, which is about typical for a Uncon when I’m one of the organisers.

In the meantime, Zoe and Duncan had a blast together. Zoe didn’t get ill, which is pretty unusual for a weekend away from me, she usually gets something. Duncan was left in charge of buying her a new tent (incident with a local cat killing something in her original tent has left me feeling squeamish about using it again) and when I came home, I discovered that, instead, he’d bought her a bouncy castle. She thinks it’s awesome but all I can think is that it takes up too much room in the garden and it’s hardly something we can use in the living room in the bad weather. But, sigh, that’s what happens when you leave dads in charge sometimes.

Life on metformin is OK. The side effects are at their worst the day after I increase my dose, which is today, but I’ve no more increases to make now, so fingers crossed I’ll soon be feeling 100%. I’ve not lost any weight yet, but I have noticed that my cravings for sweet things and chocolate are dramatically reduced, so hopefully I’ll start to lose soon. In other medical news, my mum is awaiting blood test results following a scan on her ovaries last week. Do you know if you have a hysterectomy, your ovaries just float around your body, untethered? I find this strange. Anyway, after the scan, her GP called her to say instead of shrinking, one of her ovaries is much larger than it should be and they’re worried it might be cancer. She seems remarkably calm about the whole thing, very different from her kidney cancer diagnosis. Fingers crossed the blood work doesn’t show cancer.

Finally, in a continuation of this year’s theme (regression to early teens), I found something out yesterday that made me smile. When I was 11/12, I really fancied this boy who was a year older than me and was the son of one of my mum’s friends. We spent a number of summers hanging out and we both worked at the same shop doing our paper round. He was the first ‘real’ boy I’d fancied (as opposed to celebrities I mean). Anyway, I fancied him (as did one of my friends) but, of course, was far far too chicken to say anything to him and, anyway, he was always (childishly) mean to me so that didn’t make me even want to tell him. Anyway, turns out it’s true, boys who like you are mean to you, as he admitted yesterday that he was mean to me because he did like him. It made me blush and smile when I read that and ponder, just for a moment, on what might have been.

Until there is a next time…
xx