Barren Mare

Texts in the church yard

Once upon a time, seeing crows in the church yard was an omen of bad luck. These days, it seems that bad news travels on the tide of text messages.

At the risk of being desperately cryptic, I can't tell you exactly where I was on the morning of 7 July. But let's just say I was in "a place". Also in that place was a man and his mobile phone. We were sitting, waiting together. I had never met this man before, and as I made clear to him when he initially tried to strike up a conversation, I was not particularly in the mood for distracting chitchat right then. So I was surprised when he leaned over to me and said, "I've just had a text message that London is under attack."

I turned to look at him.

"Really," I said, giving him my best "unamused" look. " Are you being serious?"

And, as I later recalled with a pang, he laughed. He waved a hand dismissively, saying,

"I'm sure it's a joke. My friend plays a lot of video games."

Of course, not being an expert on these things, I could not immediately identify which computer game in question might involve a simulated "attack of London", but I felt a distinct sense of unease. Indeed, something about the scenario had a very unpleasant resonance. Suddenly I remembered, in graphic detail, the events of several years ago. I had the day off from work and was walking back from shopping in town on a mild September afternoon, a similar text message from E. on my mobile phone.

"New York under attack," it said. "Go home, turn on TV."

And I did, watching in horror until the towers fell, at which point I had to go lie down on the bathroom floor and weep.

So while I hoped the man with the phone next to me was joking, in my heart, I suspected that he was not. Two minutes later, another text came in- bombs on a bus, bombs on the underground in London. Unfortunately, due to the nature of the place I was in (again with the cryptic, sorry), no more calls could be made or received. Nor could we leave, or talk to each other further, or go find out what the hell was going on. Several times the man and I looked at each other, eyebrows raised. I knew he was thinking as I was, "They will tell us if there is a problem here, right? They'll let us know if Scotland is on fire too, right? They won't just leave us sitting, surely. Right? Right?"

In short, I had to sit there for over an hour, wondering what was happening. Wondering if it was just London, or if other cities were affected. Wondering, when I finally emerged from the place I was in, what I would find. In actual fact, there was very much an attitude of "carry on as normal, as best you can". For me, though, maybe it was because of the odd limbo period I had just experienced, the whole day was extremely unsettling- not to mention sad.

However, if ever there was a class act as to how to behave in a crisis, London is it. Things were up and running the next day. That's not just a stiff upper lip, that's a backbone of steel- and mighty impressive, too.

For those who have suffered, or are waiting in desperation for news of lost loved ones, I am so very sorry.

Carnival for Full Enjoyment

For anyone who might be wondering, I am quite unaffected by the Clandestine Insurgent Rebel Clown Army, currently wreaking G8 inspired havoc here in Scotland. Though they, and all the other protesters, appear to be having a lovely time with their "Carnival for Full Enjoyment.". Which, as far as names of protests go, is surely one of the giddier and more whimsical, and for that reason alone earns a small chortle of amused appreciation.

They called on: "Flex, temp and casual workers, benefit claimers, full-time wage slaves & work refusers, pensioners, new dealers, migrants, students, part-timers, dreamers, duckers & divers, to turn out for a jolly afternoon of:

"drums, musical instruments, banners, placards, imagination for action against the G8 that expresses our resistance in work, out of work and wherever we live.".

The aim? To: "Assert our desires for FULL ENJOYMENT with some fun in the city and start to make capitalism history".

Delightful as all this may sound, sadly- as one who already derives considerable enjoyment from all the fun that capitalism has to offer- I probably don't fit the bill. Probably just as well, since it would appear from the news reports that the highlights of said carnival (complete with clowns! let us not forget the clandestine clowns!) appears to consist of chucking a few rubbish bins at the police, spray-painting some buildings with anarchist symbols and waving a few black flags. Hurrah.

The funny thing is, I was not averse to a bit of protestation now and then back in the good old days of my less cynical youth. This normally took the form of the odd march or two in Washington D.C. And once, during my junior year of college, there was a minor student uprising, the reasons for which now escape me. I recall there was some sort of extended sit-in in the main adminstration hall, accompanied by the cancellation of all classes while various speakers held the floor with impassioned, incoherent extortations to...do...something.

At the height of the protest there was a campus wide march with unified shouting, singing of rousing songs, banner waving, candle wax dripping, and foot stomping. If memory serves, it culminated in a formation of a huge ring of students defiantly linking arms on the main quadrangle in a show of...something. The police were called, and a few squad cars showed up, officers peering over the fence with some bemusement.

No one got hurt or arrested, and everyone had a thoroughly enjoyable time, the finer points of which were dissected at length in the school cafeteria for the next six months. Unfortunately, though nobody liked to admit it, it was the sort of place where what one wore to the protest was probably almost as important as the protest itself. So it was not long before the main issue was sidetracked into an analysis of why so-and- so felt the need to turn up in a long camel-colored cashmere coat, pink beret and those ridiculously high stack-heeled combat boots.

Give me clandestine insurgent rebel clowns any day.

Or possibly some fireworks. Happy 4th of July. May it be sparkly and, er, of Full Enjoyment.

Sunshine on my shoulder

I have big news. Big, big news.

Are you ready for this? Are you sitting down?

OK. Tonight...melodramatic pause...I ate my dinner....outside, in the sunshine, on my terrace. In a t-shirt, cropped jeans and bare feet. Not a cardigan, woolie beanie, fluffy pullover or fingerless gloves in sight. Nope. I was quite comfortable, temperature wise. I ate my dinner and drank a glass of wine, while the sun continued to shine. A light wind (note: light, as in not blasting icy arctic air) gently ruffled my hair.

Even after cleaning up my dinner debris, I keep wandering back out there, to the scene of this miraculous event. If only E. had been here to confirm that it was not all just a happy dream.

I think my system has gone into shock from the experience. Perhaps that also has something to do with the fact that the pollen count is eye-wateringly high. Ooh, and speaking of pollen- that neatly enables me to segue onto an amusing little anecdote which I forgot to share with you about our last appointment with Her Nurseness at the OC.

One of the things we discussed, in between the endless shuffling of consent forms, was our options for the various drugs in our upcoming IVF cycle. The nasal spray for suppression was a bit of a no-brainer. Basically, "Do I want to inhale mood-alterating, nostril-clogging, head-ache inducing, cooter-drying medication twice a day? Or five times a day?" Mmmm. The "five times a day" option was marginally cheaper- but we decided that life is probably going to be complicated enough for the duration, without me having to excuse myself from my desk to sneak off to the ladies' toilet cubicle for a snort. I spend enough time in there weeping and sniffling as it is.

The stimming injections, on the other hand, are proving slightly more complex in terms of working out what is best. More on that later- though suffice to say I've been gradually Googling my way through a vertitable smorgasbord of choice. For those of you who are furrowing your brows and wondering why I don't just inject what they tell me to inject, I should explain that this is crux of my dilemma. Because apart from the dosage, the OC are pretty much leaving it up to me to decide. Which is why I will shortly be needing your help.

Anyway, kids, let's not get ahead of ourselves, all in good time. For the moment, for the purposes of tthis particular tale, let's just say we touched on the issue of my general unease with the whole "stabbing myself in the gut with a pointy needle" aspect of IVF. Because, really, if you want to pinpoint (geddit- pinpoint?) my major stumbling block with the treatment process, it's this. The needles, and the self-imposed injection thereof. I feel as everything else is surmountable- the cost, the emotional upheaval, the scheduling, etc., etc.- but the injecto-tastic element has given me, shall we say, pause.

Yes, I know it's going to be fine, and that the idea is worse than the jab, and so on. I know all of that. I know when the time comes, I should hopefully be able to summon those nerves of steel (I think I have a spare set in trunk of the car, for emergencies). And somehow, I will get the job done. But in the meantime I'm just trying to explain that this is the part that, rightly or wrongly, is making me go "OH FUCKITY FUCK" right now.

I was explaining this to Her Nurseness, and you know what E. says? Do you?

"It's no big deal, sweetie. You'll be fine." he says, waving one languid hand in the air. "When I was a kid, I used to get really bad hayfever, and my mother had to give me an injection every day. And it was fine."

To which Her Nurseness and I both responded by serving up our best withering looks, before resuming our discussion about my stimming options.

Aftewards, in the car, I said to E., "Your hayfever injections? I am sure that was all very traumatising at the time, but really, I'm not sure that, ah....well, I don't see that it's strictly...what I mean to say is...your hayfever injections?!"

I'm still at a loss for words.

Perhaps I need to wander out to the terrace one more time and gaze upon the fleeting beauty that is a rare, warm summer evening in Scotland. And perhaps just see if there is a droplet more of wine left.

They be Guidelines!

Oh, I assure you, I was deadly serious when I said that we were given forms to take to our GP. Forms on which it is open to them to opine on our fitness to be parents.

Some of you may recall this discussion, in which I asked for your views on a public consultation being held by the Human Fertilisation and Embryology Authority (HFEA). However, having read over that post, I am not sure I explained myself very well as to the dealio in the United Kingdom. So, let's review.

The Law

If you were to run run run to your British statute book, flip merrily through the pages to the Human Fertilisation and Embryology Act, and scroll down until section 13(5), what you would find is this little gem:

“A woman shall not be provided with treatment services unless account has been taken of the welfare of any child who may be born as a result of the treatment (including the need of that child for a father), and of any other child who may be affected by the birth.”

I won't get into how we ended up with such a provision- though the short answer appears to be because MSPs were worried about single or lesbian women getting treatment. If you are interested in the full background of how we were saddled with such a law, there is a very full, cogent and worthwhile dissection of the issue and its history here.

Right, so what does the section mean? It means that by law, anyone in the UK seeking fertility treatment cannot be provided with that treatment until the provider has considered what is commonly referred to as the "Welfare of the Child" principle. It makes no difference that the "child" to be born from treatment is but a mere hypothetical at that stage. A twinkle in the lab technician's eye, as it were.

The observant among you will note that the section does not say anything about how one goes about making such an assessment, and indeed, the Act itself is silent on that point. Obviously, given a very stringent interpretation, it would be open to clinics to make prospective patients jump through all sorts of hoops. And what's more, theoretically, clinics could simply deny treatment to anybody they didn't like the look of.

The Code of Practice

However, in order to receive and retain a license for fertility treatment, clinics must comply with the HFEA Code of Practice. Now, as Captain Barbossa would say, the Code is more like...guidelines. These guidelines are issued to all clinics, to set out some parameters as to how they should go about meeting the legal requirements of the welfare principle, and the kinds of factors which should be "taken into account" in assessing prospective patients. And it was those guidelines which were recently up for review, and on which HFEA carried out their consultation.

I responded to that consultation, and my main view was insert wet ppppphhhhttttbbb sound. Though, to be fair, one of the possibilities is that in response to the consultation, the guidelines might be loosened up somewhat.

In the meantime, every fertility clinic can choose to comply with the Code as they see fit. And it would seem there is some room to move around to how the assessment takes place. So what you get can really vary. For example, despite my disgruntlement about other aspects of the Ass Con clinic, they did manage to dispatch the "taking into account" rigamarole with relative lack of fuss and bother. We had to fill out a questionnaire and talk to Dr Percent about a few general things like our living situation. But that was about it, and it was handled in a very low key, non-intrusive way.

The Declaration by General Practitioner

The OC on the other hand, have obviously opted for the other end of the Code spectrum. Before we can commence treatment, both E. and I have to have our respective GP's sign off on the rather grandiosely titled "Declaration by General Practitioner". What this requires in a nutshell is for the GP to declare that they have discussed fertility treatment with [me]/[E.], and considered "the interests of any children born as a result of treatment". The GP also has to tick a box that says :

A: "I know of no reason why treatment should not proceed, or relevant facts that should be brought to the clinics attention;

B: There are issues which should be taken into account;

C: I am/am not (delete as appropriate) willing to supply information that I consider to be relevant upon request.

Sign/date/practice stamp. Love and kisses, Doc.

Oh, and we also have to fill out another questionnaire, in which we are asked stuff like, "have you ever been convicted of a criminal conviction", or even been investigated for a criminal offence. The latter part leaves no option to do a Danny Ocean- you know, "Well, ma'am, as you say, I was never charged."

E.'s GP has already signed the form, ticking A (with a little grumbling about what a crock of shit it was) and I am hoping that my GP will have no difficulty in simply doing the same.

How do you like them apples?

Er, yeah. How do I feel about this? Huh. Not great. But you know, when one is looking down the barrel of a shotgun, one's options for complaining about the person with the finger on the trigger begin to seem a little...limited. We need the treatment, so we need to get the form stamped. That's the reality. And I can only hope that in time, with other aggrieved voices added to the chorus, that things can change.

Until then...? Well, I've known for some time now that infertility is a dish served with lashings of injustice and unfairness, with a side of helping of bitterness. This part of it is, for me, simply one more sour garnish. It won't kill me- but I suspect I may never get the bad taste out of my mouth, ever again.

Meeting Amy

Hurrah! The first interesting thing I mentioned earlier came to pass yesterday. I had a special visitor here at the Barn, none other than the ever delightful Amy, she of Fertilely Challenged fame.

I had refrained from speaking of it until now, because I was worried that like the best laid plans, this one would somehow get derailed by a last minute work/domestic crisis. And then no one would believe me when I claimed that I was having blogger meetage. After all, the Barn is, admittedly, some ways off the beaten track- in a place where "summer" in the usual sense (you know- heat, sun etc.) is something of an urban legend.

What can I tell you about Amy? Let's see. For starters, she's punctual. Always a plus in my books. There's something ever so slightly daunting about a pre-arranged meeting of someone from the Internets. Even though you are completely confident that they are who they say they are, there is a part of your brain that wonders if in fact they may turn out to be, say, an elderly Dutch woman with a wooden leg, or a crazed axe murderer with a bloodlust for infertile girls.

Happily, Amy arrived right on time at the designated meeting place, which left virtually no opportunity for my tiny mind to dwell on such unwholesome paranoia.

Another thing about Amy- she appreciates, as I do, the value of a good "Happy Hour" offer. Buy two large glasses of wine and get the rest of the bottle free! Yippee! There's nothing like a couple of glasses of house vino to loosen the tongue- not that we really needed any such incentive, since within a few moments of perching on those ghastly trendy bar stools, we were gabbing away like we'd known each other forever.

Oh, and yet another thing- she's a funny, sassy, articulate, insightful and interesting conversationalist. She has a lovely deep and frequent laugh. Not only that, but she is a good listener. Unlike so many other people who have heard me ramble about our infertility woes, she didn't glaze over, tune out, or change the subject. Although we did both veer off, frequently, into frivolous talk-such as current hot trends in jeans and handbags.

I'm sure someone else has posted about this recently (forgive me but I cannot for the life of me remember who)- but it occured to me during the evening that I was experiencing this overwhelming feeling of relief to be in the company of someone who totally and completely gets my situation. I think it is the first time since this infertility lark began that I have truly felt that comfort. Not only that, but as we were sitting there talking, I thought to myself- here's a woman who has been through IVF three times, been through more medical crap than I can even contemplate. It didn't work for her, and there's no obvious reason why. But it wasn't the end of her- far, far from it. Quite the opposite. I sense very good things are coming Amy's way soon. That was very encouraging, especially for someone like me, as I stand on the brink of so much uncertainty.

Rather amusingly, E., who as I think I have mentioned is not often in the same city as me during the working week- suddenly- and for no apparent reason, decided he wanted to drive over that night. He had emailed me earlier to announce that he was "at a bit of a loose end" and "what was I doing later?"

"Sweetness," I replied, "I am happy for you to join us, but I am meeting Amy for drinks & dinner, remember?"

I don't know if somehow the synapses in his brain were not firing, or if I was somehow typing in Greek, but this message repeatedly failed to penetrate his cerebrum. Consequently, when I finally remembered (at the end of Happy Hour, just before we went to the restaurant) to turn on my mobile phone, he was rather grumpy that I was not at home.

"Where are you?" I asked.

"I'm at the flat. Our flat. I thought we'd have something to eat."

" Ahem. May I remind you, as I have done repeatedly over the last several days, and indeed a mere few hours ago, that I. AM. HAVING. DINNER. WITH. AMY."

Oh.

Turns out he was too tired to come out and meet us (plus he had started cooking dinner!) but like a good sport, he drove into town later to pick us up and give Amy a lift back to her hotel. Unfortunately, instead of looking like the delicious Sex God he so essentially is, he chose to appear in a rather peculiar ensemble of baggy biking shorts with a grubby old jersey on top, and a pair of nasty old sneakers on his feet. Mmm, scruffy, and not really in a sexy way.

Sorry, Amy. He's really so much hotter than that, I promise. And not usually so absent minded. Please do come back and see us again- and with any luck, next time you'll be bringing your daughter with you.

'Til dress do us part

Had I stayed married to my first husband (or rather, just "my husband", since strictly speaking, as of this writing, there is no second husband), we would have very recently celebrated our tenth wedding anniversary. And no doubt, I would have been the recipient of some lovely tradtional tin item.

I have to say, I much prefer the modern anniversary table. If I'd hung on for ten whole years with that man, I would have been expecting a hell of lot of more than tin to mark the occasion. Like a diamond, perhaps. Mmm, tin or diamond. Tin or diamond. Tough choice there.

I suppose I was thinking about the whole anniversary thing, not because I have any particular regret about not reaching that milestone (relief would be more like it), but more because everything about the wedding itself reminds me of how much my taste has changed over the years.

In actual fact, there were two weddings. Due to some complicated visa issue, the first was a civil cermony at a registry office. We were trying to pretend it wasn't the actual wedding itself, thinking of it more as jumping through a necessary legal hoop. So we had a quiet, simple service on a weekday, and didn't invite anyone except two friends to be our witnesses.

I wore a yellowy-cream silk shift dress with matching jacket, cream tights and a pair of cream shoes with a low heel. I looked like a vanilla ice cream cone. Oh, and I had extremely long, permed curly hair at the time. I had so much hair that it made my long, small and pointy face look even longer and pointier than usual. If photographed from the wrong angle, the effect was decidedly Howard Stern.

But perhaps even worse was the get-up for the proper full-blown church wedding event. My dress was so large that the airline threatened to make us buy an extra seat for it. It had a long sweeping train, and gigantic intricate lace bow at the back. A bow! Good God, as if I needed to call any extra attention to my ass! I was about 20 pounds heavier at that age, and the dress was cut low in the bodice and off the shoulders. At dinner, my bosom threatened to spill out into the rack of lamb and raspberry pavlova.

I haven't been able to track down an online picture of the actual frock itself, although this comes very close in giving you the flavour of it.

I had my hair up, too, much like in that picture, in an elaborate coiled bouffant, with small flowers woven through. There were two big curls hanging down loose at the front. It poured with rain on the day, and the curls eventually drooped on to my shoulders in long lackluster strings. I hadn't discovered eyelash curlers or liquid eyeliner at that point in my makeup bag of tricks. So instead of appearing sparklingly wide-eyed and alert, I had a sort of dull heavy lidded look about me.

But who are we kidding? The main thing I had wrong was the choice of husband. Nice guy, sweet person, but utterly unsuitable for me as a long-term life partner. Fortunately, I figured that out before we made it to our cotton/china anniversary.

About a month after the wedding, I chopped my hair off into a pixie cut, ala Winona and never wore it past my shoulders again. And it's safe to say I have very different ideas about the choice of bridal attire, should E. and I ever decide to embark on matrimonial bliss.

So, what about you? Do you look back on the photos of yourself on your wedding day and think, "Ahhhhh, yes." Or do you slam the album shut, thinking "Urrrrgh, no!"?

Mare Britannia

Well, I'm back. Not that you would have really known I was away (apart from the lack of posts for a few days), because I omitted to tell anyone.

But I was. Away, that is. In London. Seeing the Mare parents, who were returning from their vacation somewhere else in Europe, and who were stopping off for a few days in the big city. So E. and I flew down to see them. That may sound all exciting and jetsettery, until you realise that: a.) London is just one big international transport hub and b.) E. and I already live in the UK.

I always forget how busy (read: crowded) and expensive (read: hemorraghing money) London can be. So I think I need a brief minute to sit here quietly in the corner, soothing my aching legs and my white-hot credit card.

Suffice to say in the interim, a very good and delightful time was had by all, except that as usual, we crammed in so much in the space of a few short days that I am completely exhausted. My parents are such hardy and intrepid little souls. Really, I don't know where they get the energy for all that sightseeing AND for so much willful mispronunciation. CON-vent Garden, or alternatively "Coventry Garden". Taking "the Metro". Oh look, it's raining, let's put up our brellies.

Bless them, it warmed my heart right through. As we said our farewells this morning at the airport, I confess to being desperately sad to see the Mare family once again separated by a long flight and a big ocean.

Of course, if the July IVF fails, I may be spending an extended amount of time in their company, should we ultimately end up enacting Plan D, a prospect I find rather cheering in a "glass half full" kind of way.

Especially if the glass is filled with sangria, and the drinking of said glass is taking place by the pool in the Florida sunshine. And, as we enter the last couple weeks of our wait to start treatment, that's a silver lining to hold on to.

Saddle Sore- The Sequel

So, remember a couple weeks ago when I was talking about E.'s fresh obsession with the bikes? Yeah. Well, unlike many of his little whims, that one hasn't gone away. In fact, so inflamed was he by the bright spark of a new(ish) hobby, that he went out a bought a new mountain bike for himself.

I would like to say that I "allowed" this, but who am I kidding? I had hee-haw to say about it. He wanted it, he bought it and that was the end of it. My only comfort is that I now have a small bargaining chip to deploy when I finally take delivery of a certain handbag.

Unfortunately, getting a new bike meant that he wanted to go off and be able to ride it (surprise, surprise).

Now, one of the nice things about E. is that he likes my company, and as much as possible wants me to take part in these sorts of recreational activities, rather than disappearing off on his own for the entire weekend (although he does do that sometimes as well). On the downside, this may mean exerting a considerable amount of energy for an undertaking, er, not of my choosing.

Sunday, for example. It being a long holiday weekend, E decides this is an ideal time to test out the new wheels. Where shall we go?

"We?" I say. "As in...you and I? But I do not have mountain bike, remember?"

"That's OK," E announces, "you can ride the new one, and I will ride my old bike."

"My sweet," I reply in my best let's-be-reasonable tone of voice, "your bike will be a bit too big for me, no?"

"We'll put the seat down!" E says confidently.

Riiiiight. OK. I have grave doubts about this plan of action. That, together with the fact that, although I have done an immense of amount of road cycling, I have never tried proper off-road mountain biking before .

But one of the things that I adhere to in this relationship is that I must try, at all times, to be the best possible person I can be. So if that means donning my ridiculous old egg of a helmet (no streamlined newfangled model for me, oh no) and cycling valiantly up hills in the rain rather than staying at home with my cosy cups of tea and a book, well so be it. All in the name of love!

And so that is how I find myself doing just that- getting up early to help E stuff the bikes into the back of our tiny car. Arseing around for ages trying to get the wheel and brake clip reattached. Straining at the pedals up a steep gradiant, in the wind and lashing rain, while stylish young whippersnappers whizz past me, spraying fine gravel toward my face.

Oh, and for added entertainment value, my period, which arrived the previous morning (a mere hour or two after I carried out a rare HPT exercise) decides this is a good time to kick into high gear, singing Ave Maria in a high, slightly offkey accompaniment to crampy spasms at regular intervals.

I begin to rethink my crazy idealistic notions of love.

What we soon discover is that while I am absolutely fine- and indeed rather tenacious- about the going-up hill part, the downhill presents something of a problem. This is unfortunate, since undoubtedly, that is the whole point of going up in the first place. The path is muddy, there are big rocks jutting out at akward intervals and I don't feel as if I can control the bike, which in all honesty, really is slightly too big for me, despite having the seat put all the way down.

I descend like a little old lady- brake, brake, brake. E., who flies down at warp speed, waits for me, a slightly impatient look on his face.

"Sorry, sweetie," I gasp, skidding to a stop, my tiny feet flailing for the ground. "I don't think I am much good at this."

Does he give a charming wink and smile, or the thumbs up? Does he offer words of encouragement? Does he say to me, "Not to worry, my precious little egghead, my plucky pal, my stalwart cycling superstar sweetheart?"

No. He does not. Instead, he gives me a slightly condescending grin, and says, "Yeah, you are being kind of a wuss."

I am extremely tempted at that point to bite his leg, but he takes off at high speed before I am able to even issue a suitably crass rejoinder. Leaving me to struggle on down the remaining slope- as I vow, never again.

Sullen, in the car ride home, I wait for him to apologise. He does not. He cannot quite understand why I am so irritated with him.

"Look, it's not my fault if you suck at mountain-biking," he says after a long spell. "I thought you might enjoy it, but you don't. So we don't have to go again. I can go on my own next time."

I stare out the window.

"It's not that," I say, finally. "It's just that I didn't need yet another demonstration of what a big failure I am."

And it's true. I think what a large part of what annoys me about not getting pregnant is that I have failed, in some fundamental way, to do something that should come as naturally as rolling downhill. Other people are flying past, fearlessly, while I am skidding and braking for dear life. I tell myself it's not my fault that our path is rockier and bumpier than could have been expected. That I am doing the best I can.

But sometimes I wish for something as simple as a smooth novice's path. For a gentle pace, sunshine slanting through tall pines. For my feet to quickly and easily touch the ground.

Saddle sore

Thank you all heaps and bunches, bunches and heaps for your nice comments. I didn't mean to repay your kindness by disappearing off for days on end. But the weather turned unexpectedly glorious over the weekend. In Scottish climate terms, this is roughly the equivalent of winning the lottery and finding a really good pair of designer shoes reduced by 75% in the Harvey Nichols sale ...in your size.

In this country, any sign of sunshine, (no matter how brief) means one must immediately rush headlong into spending as much time as humanly possible out of doors. Of course, for many people this extends no further than heading down to the local pub to sit in the open-air beer garden, usually dressed in unsuitably scanty attire, like a thin cotton haltertop, unflattering miniature shorts and flipflops.  As if somehow "sunshine" automatically equated with "80 degrees", or as if we were in Majorca or the Costa del Sol, rather than a country roughly on the same latitude as Anchorage, Alaska. 

E. decided that this was a good time to get out our trusty old bicycles.  I used to do quite a lot of cycling once upon a time, back in ye olde days when I actually used to have a life other than skulking around the flat, muttering about infertility. Unfortunately, with one thing or another, it's been at least three years since either of us has ridden our bikes, and there was a definite air of neglect in that corner of garage.  Flat tyres, rusted brakes, and a veritable Charlotte's Web of activity adorning the spokes meant we spent most of the afternoon wielding rags, WD40 and the bike pump. 

I can't remember the last time I have seen E. in such a happy mood, cursing away at the left rear valve, and nearly toppling over when his left foot became entangled in my rather complicated pedal clip arrangement.  E.'s solution to that little moment of merriment was to immediately demand I buy a new bike.

What is it with that?  I've had the same bike for 15 years. I've never had any problems with the pedal clips, or the racing handlebars.  The bike was very expensive when purchased way back when, bought for a transcontinental cycling adventure in my more energetic youth, and it's held up well, considering all the miles it has seen. Trading it in would be like...oh, forget it, that's not even an option, so let's not even go there.  Chalk it up to E.'s insatiable male lust for smoother, bigger, better gadgetry.

To prove to E. that with a bit of loving care, the old steed is still entirely roadworthy, we went out for a spin.  And it was such a nice afternoon that we ended up going quite a bit further than intended. We got back without too much difficulty, but the next day, our respective nether regions were feeling more than a little...tender.

Problem is, this was what I have come to think of as "baby sweeps" week.  If I have done my calculations correctly, I reckon we have at best one or two more au natural cycle attempts before we are shipped off to Camp A.R.T.   So I had intended to make the most of our last few college trys, as it were.  Unfortunately, tender nether regions do not assist in that endevour.

Worse, I have a really bad, painful mouth ulcer, right along my front gum. So sloppy kissing was pretty much off the cards as well. 

I did suggest at one point that we pretend I was Julia Roberts' Vivian to his Richard Gere's Edward Lewis - you know, the whole "I do everything but kiss on the lips" schtick.  But E. was curiously unmoved by what I imagine would have otherwise been a rather appealing notion.  Probably because he loathes Julia Roberts.  And ever since the whole "Phinneaus/Hazel peak of beauty glow" thing, I myself find it hard to regard her with much affection, never mind emulate her acting in the boudoir.

Instead we opted for some hedgehog-style lovin'- that is, very carefully. It is hedgehog breeding season, after all.  All those hedgehogs getting busy making little baby hoglets. Perhaps one day I shall give birth to this. 

Return from the North

And so I am back from the Frozen North, slightly earlier than expected. Well, really only a day earlier. We were meant to drive back today, but for various reasons, as detailed below, there was a change of plan.

It was cold

Holy Loch Ness Monster, Batman, but it was brrrr chilly. Chilly as in a raw numb ache down in the bones.

The freezing temperatures should really not have come as a big shock. I mean, it is March in Scotland. But as we discovered, there is a certain disconnect between looking at pretty pictures (taken in summer) of rental options, and the reality of just how bracing the weather can be. Plus, these old cottages, while incredibly romantic-looking and undeniably picturesque, do tend to lack certain key things, like insulation. The crackling log fire on the hearth, while lending a jolly atmosphere to the living room, failed utterly to lessen the bone-numbing cold. It was like spending a week in an ice box.

Now, lest you think I am a whiner, I would assure you that normally, the cold might not have been such a big problem. Except, and that brings me onto my second reason-

I forgot to bring a bunch of stuff

Clearly I had some sort of brain lock while I was throwing things into my duffel case, because when we arrived and I took stock of both my surroundings and my packing, I realised with a sinking feeling that there were some grave omissions. This irked me so much for days that I actually made a list midway through the week. Here are some examples:

- Long winter underwear & thermal top. Absolute disaster. Made the bracing countryside walks twice as bracing.
- Proper walking boots. Source of gigantic row with E. I was sure boots were in the flat in the Other City, while he was adamant I had left them in the hall closet at home. Had to make do with a pair of his old Timberlands and three pairs of socks.
- Book which I was in the middle of reading. I brought plenty of other reading material, but kept wishing I had remembered to stick Strange & Norrell in the bag.
- Mud mask. Had vague notion that clean country air would revitalise skin tone, aided by home spa-like treatments. Hah.
- Bath salts. See above.
- Soap. Ah. Slightly more crucial lapse. A certain pong developing about our persons, particularly after all those brisk hikes.
- Tweezers. Another absolute disaster. Eyebrows seizing opportunity afforded by unfortunate lapse of strategic planning, threatening to colonize face by third day.

We ran out of food

This was not entirely our fault. On the way to the cottage, we stopped off in Fort William to stock up on a week's provisions at the big grocery store. However, we were prevented from entering by a harrassed looking shop assistant, who barricaded the entrance with his large self, announcing to the growing crowd behind us that the store was closed. Something about "leaking freezer" and "fumes" and "environmental health".

So we had no choice but to join the throng in heading to the small "Metro shop" in town. Clearly the closure of the big store was was the most exciting thing to happen in Fort William for some time, because everyone had to stand in the narrow aisles of the Metro shop discussing it, blocking our access to the wine. It was hell on earth.

Consequently our provisioning for the week consisted of a rather strange mix of items, such as tins of baked beans, a jar of olives, some indifferent rashers of bacon and the odd muffin or two. We ran out of both booze and firewood by Thursday, a very grim state of affairs. We went to bed that night with the wind howling over the loch, a storm approaching.

So in the end, we decided to head home. It was, all things considered, a nice time. We had some lovely walks, and the scenery was achingly beautiful. We saw an otter and some, um, nice birds.

There was also time to rest and reflect. Whereupon I discovered that in the current circumstances, I feel better when I don't have quite so much opportunity to sit around brooding about "things", getting too deep into my own head. Like how the cottage would have been so much cosier if it was occupied by a family. Like my worry that this is it, for the rest of our lives, the two of us rattling around trying to fill time. Like realising how much I was missing my computery friends.

It's good to be home.