Barren Mare

You have questions, I (sort of) have answers

Gather round, adorable muffins, gather round- it's time for Question & Answer Time with Mare. No pushing now, you are all guaranteed a good seat.

At this juncture, it may be worth explaining how we have come to our current conclusions on adoption in this country. The easiest way seems to be to try to answer some of the very interesting and relevant questions raised in the last post, or those questions you may be thinking to yourself in your pointy little heads at home, wondering to yourself, "But why don't they try X solution"?

As a general health warning, please remember at all times I am talking about us, in our particular set of circumstances and in terms our particular "goals" for family building. Me and E. If you are a prospective adopter in this country, in any doubt whatsoever about the policy in your area, or how it might work for you, then I beg you not to take this as a definitive guide as to how the system works. Talk to the agency or the local authority before you run screaming out of the room.

Ready? OK. Let's go.

If the agency you want to work with has a certain policy about age, could you find one with more flexibility?

The first thing you have to understand is that in Scotland, there are no "private" adoption agencies in quite the same way that you would have in America. Every local authority (i.e. Argyll & Bute Council) is an adoption agency, and depending on where you live, there are also some volunteer charity organisations, such as Barnado's or Scottish Adoption Association.

That's it. That's all there is. So in our area, there is limited choice. It gets even more limited when you realise that some of the charity organisations have some initial criteria for acceptance, i.e. that you are Christian, married for two years or more. Strike one, strike two. Some local authorities/agencies require you to wait an additional six months to a year after completing treatment (to give yourself time to "mourn". Ha. As if you can put a timescale on that.)

Yes, you can do international adoption with a local authority in some areas, if they have the necessary approval, but some appeared to be more, um, geared up than others.

So if it's the local authority that has this dumbass policy, could you maybe just move to a different area, one with an agency with a more reasonable mindset?

The thing to bear in mind is that the age limit thing is a policy, no more. In reality, it might be that we would have no problem at all. For example, we are both in very good health. And it might be that in our circumstances, being slightly older would not be an issue. I am simply going on the information I received from the agency and did the math on timescales. For us, and our desired route and choices, it just doesn't look like a sure thing. The point is, once we get past a certain point, we personally may be setting ourselves up for another difficult hurdle in a process with enough fucking hurdles already, thank you very much. I just wanted to be absolutely clear about that before we started tripping blithely down the ART path, thinking we can come back to adoption later.

The yardstick of age 43 upwards seems to apply quite broadly in most areas of Scotland. So there is no guarantee that if we moved elsewhere we would be any better off.

Plus, you know, apart from the adoption problem, we kind of like it where we are. We both have good jobs in a country where good jobs are relatively scarce. For me to work in England (or America for that matter) would require a further round of professional requalifications. Right now, I'd frankly rather stick my head in a blender.

Could you perhaps undergo secret treatment while on the waiting list for adoption?

I love this idea- it's Operation Stealth Ass Con! Shh, I'm shooting up on the sly. Doctor, bring me a Martini, shaken not stirred.

No, that would be very difficult. You both have to provide all sorts of medical information, including reports from a GP. I think it would get quite complicated, and if we were found out, it would be bad. Very bad. I don't want to start off the process by bending the truth. Plus, we'd sure to be busted when we undergo the lie detector test. (Kidding. There is no lie detector test. Just checking to see you are still awake.)

Acupuncture- good idea, one which I will probably investigate at some point. However, personally, if I am going to adopt, I would prefer to focus primarily on that, and not on treatment or getting pregnant. There is, frankly, only so much time in the day, and the logistics of overseas adoption appear quite complicated for us. So I would want adoption to be the first place for my energy. That seems to be very in line with the thinking of most agencies, and the reason they require couples to have finished with treatment before they start adoption.

I seem to recall something about you being a US citizen. Why don't you adopt in America and bring the child back to that place where you live, what's it called, oh yes, Scotland

Ya gotta love that lateral thinking. Points for effort, kids. The problem with that plan is that as far as I can work out, to bring an adopted child into this country, you must be approved for adoption here. In other words, even if we were to adopt in the US, we'd still have to undergo the homestudy etc, here and be approved. Plus, it then all seems to get hopelessly messy because E. is not a US citizen. Try confuzzlement on a grand scale. Again, don't get me wrong, I am sure there are ways around this, if we really wanted to make it work badly enough. But given that right now the overwhelming urge to put my head down on the desk and weep, I'm not quite at that point yet.

Isn't there somewhere on the internet you can get decent, accurate information on all this?

Well, yes and no. There are links, some of which are informative in a general way, like here. Many sites I have tried simply take you so far and then dry up to a dribble. I've tried joining a few Yahoo!groups and the like, but most of these require you to be "committed to adoption" and "in the process" before they are willing to accept you into their message boards. Never mind how the fuck am I supposed to work out if I am committed when I cannot even get the information I need.

My adoption research is like panning for gold- the odd glimmer of value, a whole lot of crap. And this is me we're talking about, Little Miss Googlemeister. I am truly not trying to be defeatist, but trust me, this is not easy. I have spent hours, hours, and more hours already trying to get information and discuss this with E. But I only have so much energy in one day, and not an unlimited amount of time to make a decision.

Huh. That sucks. Maybe you could cheer yourself up by eating some haggis. What is haggis, anyway?

Generally, sheep's stomach stuffed with offal and barley. Wait, it's a lot nicer than it sounds. I had some chargrilled haggis in a restaurant the other night. It tasted like there was steak mixed in, and oh my. Yummy scrummy.

Listen, I adore you all for your wonderful support and concern. And I am going to be fine. Really, I believe that I will be fine. Maybe not right away, but someday. One way or another we will find a way, or make one. I just needed to be clear that in our case, we may not be able to go from Plan A to Plan B, and to be aware the risks of our choices. Because Plan B might not work out either.

But I do hope you'll stick around for the rest of the story. We can find out how it ends together.

Vox Populi

The S.I.P.P.Y. ("Scottish Infertility Political Posturing and Yammering") alarm went off a few days ago. I sent a squad car out to investigate.

Turns out there was a debate in the Scottish Parliament last week on infertility services. But wait! Before you start issuing tiny squeals of delight, let me assure you that it's not all that.

While I do applaud the efforts of the Minister for raising the issue, unfortunately a fair bit of the debate was also comprised of politicians engaged in self congratulatory drivel. Yes, well done, Mrs. Hairy McClary, thank you for sharing you once had a problem with endometriosis. Hooray for you, Ms Hortensia McCleod of the Clan McLeod on behalf of your constituency on the shores of Loch Shiel, for revealing that you nearly had to go through IVF once, but instead were saved by (and I quote) "a "miracle pregnancy!

Honestly, a bunch of us infertiles could have achieved more in a half hour coffee klatch in Soper's kitchen than Scotland's elected officials did in a hour of parliamentary discussion. All this blah, blah, blah, and no indication of the problem might be solved.

Note this: only one male MSP hung around for the debate. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that it was scheduled for after 5pm, not exactly political primetime. Or it could be that they all had something more pressing to do, like topping up their spray-on tan , or lighting the curtains on fire. But that did not deter our sole stalwart male politician from attending, oh no- after all, this was clearly an unmissable opportunity to spout crap.

Let's dissect a few gems, shall we?

1. "Members have raised issues about age. I agree that the age at which people qualify for treatment should be raised, especially as nowadays people who have careers often marry or settle down much later in life. However, I have a slight reservation. I do not condemn my parents in any way, but my mother was 37 and my father was 42 when I arrived. That was fine: I had caring, loving parents. However, when it came to asking, "Are you going to come and play football, dad?" that was a wee bit beyond his level. We must bear the needs of the child in mind."

Woof. Did someone fart, or does it suddenly reek of HFEA in here? To this I say, please, spare us your childhood trauma. I'm really sorry you didn't get whatever you needed from your daddy when you were growing up, but take it up with your therapist, not the debating chamber.

2. The sexual health of the nation is poor. We do not know how many infections there are. I would back the idea of a chlamydia testing scheme. For many people, the problem is a matter of lifestyle. They get into drink and drugs; they end up having sex and getting infections. That damages their lives.

Where do I even begin to discuss how very, very wrong this is? Thank, Mr MSP, for equating infertility not only with lifestyle choices, but to infer that it's all the drink! the drugs! and the STDs! causing the problem. How dare you suggest this is our fault, the result of our irresponsible living? And what the fuck would you know about the lifestyles of people needing treatment anyway, you ignorant moron? Do you have any evidence to back up your assertions, or do you just like the sound of your own verbal dribbling? And anyway, last I checked, this town is full of pissed-up junkies pushing prams en route to the methadone clinic.

If you are already thinking this asshole really should have shut up by now, just wait. He saved the best for last.

3. "Many contraceptive preparations damage women's fertility. They can limit a woman's physical capability to have children. Moreover, the sheer angst caused by fertility problems can cause mental health difficulties and those, again, can postpone children. There should be some form of counselling for people who have such difficulties."

In other words, all you women are to blame for using that nasty birth control stuff in the first place. Because birth control doesn't just prevent unwanted pregnancy, it ruins your fertility forever! Now look at what you've done, you stupid bitches. Made yourself infertile AND crazy. Get a shrink, or some electroshock therapy, you unhinged hysterical freaks. Oh, and just relax.

If you're wondering, what is that faint high pitched noise you are hearing right about now? It is the echo of my primal scream of frustration.

Take a number. Get in line

I have, in my own quiet way, started taking a few tentative steps toward getting political about the issue of fertility treatment in this country. I would describe my recent efforts as baby-steps in that direction, but oh! The sweet sweet irony!

Even though I'm not still yet fully subsumed into the ART vortex, I feel as though I could write the first chapters of an entire book about the perils and pitfalls of negotiating fertility treatment on the National Health Service in Scotland. But I fear that would bore most of you rigid, and how can I blame you? Let's face it, I wouldn't be particularly intrigued about the finer points of socialised medicine either, were it not a matter I must confront on a seemingly daily basis.

Put briefly, the deal is this. In Scotland, the amount of funding for fertility treatment in each area is up to each local health board. And, for most areas, the policy is that for qualifying couples, up to three IVF cycles will be paid for by the NHS. The catch? One of the criteria to qualify is that the woman must be 38 or under. That doesn't sound so bad on the face of it, but factor in the waiting lists are currently now hovering at 3 to 4 years minimum, it basically means that if you haven't gotten started by the time you are 34, you're already screwed.

It doesn't mean that IVF is not available for women over 38. It is- but most clinics require it to be paid for out of pocket. Bottom line- there is no money and no resource to fund widely available NHS treatment. In other words, if you can afford it, you pay for it. If you can't, you remain untreated and childless.

And when people shake their heads and demand to know why it should be any other way, why IVF should be "free" to couples in need of treatment, I want to beat them about the head with the arm I rip off their body. I've discussed this briefly before, but the difference is now the subject irritates me intensely. It's not fucking "free", OK? Not for me anyway, the taxpayer.

Anyway, in light of all the high pitched wailing that now emits from Minsterial offices on high whenever there is a mention of the dreaded "population" crisis, somebody somewhere has suddenly woken up to the fact that there are plenty of people who would very much like to do their bit for the census statistics, if given half a chance. What's stopping them in many cases? IVF waiting lists. Cut off age of 38.

So now there's some talk about possibly raising the age limit for treatment to 40. What a revelation, a bolt from the blue! As I read of this in one of the local newspaper- a parochial pile of crap that frequently distorts and slants just about everything it touches- I spotted the name of a certain politician who apparently is working for campaigning for better fertility services in Scotland.

I e-mailed her with my views and some of our history. Among other things, I explained that for an infertile couple, the waiting times and expense don't begin at the stage of IVF- that there is plenty of aggravation and cost the minute you step onto the diagnostic path. Example- need an HSG before you can be eligible for IVF? Choice: Wait seven months, or pay £500. Seven months, which bearing in mind the IVF waiting lists and the age limits, may just be the nail in your ART coffin before you have even begun.

The response was immediate- yes, she was working on change. Yes, it was helpful to know of our experiences. Yes, she would take it forward-and could she speak to my doctor to get more insight into the processes? So I gave her Dr Ticktock's name. A week or so later she e-mailed me back to say she had left the doctor a message, and was still waiting to hear back from him.

To which I thought, "Oh, sister. Welcome to my world. Take a number. Get in line."

Love in a cold climate

When we're all done rocking around the Christmas tree, when we've removed our gay apparel and the boughs of holly are wilting over the mantelpiece, when we've cleaned up the last vestiges of empty champagne bottles and party hats, what are we left with? I'll tell you what.

Winter. Winter, in her grim glory. She has us now, wrapping her harsh wooly mitted fingers right around our necks, squeezing intermittenty, for the next few months.

You know that expression, "it's not the heat, it's the humidity"? Well, in this country, in winter, it's not the cold that gets to me most- even though that cold is a particularly nasty, wet, raw, seeping into the bones sort of chill. No. It's the dark. We wake up in the dark, go to work in the dark, come home in the dark. Once in awhile, on a brisk sunny day, we might get the odd pale ray of sunshine, but for the most part, it's like being in a cave. And after all the holiday lights come down, it's bleak.

I'm a fanatic about energy conservation-admittedly not because I have any aspirations to save the environment as such, although that would be nice, too. It's because our electric bills are so astronomically high. Especially when I am home alone, I feel compelled to turn off every light behind me, apart for one little bulb burning in the room. This is fine, except when I suddenly need to go to, say, the bathroom, down the darkened hall. Then I must make my way, groping for the lightswitch on the side of the wall. Unless I miss, and walk into the door as I did the other night. Great.

Of course, our home is also heated by electricity. E. and I wage a constant stealthy war at the thermostat. It's the battle between Heat Miser and Cold Miser. He likes to bask in his t-shirt in a balmy room, where I am firmly of the school that one should "Put a sweater on if you're chilly"! I spent all the winters of my childhood shivering by a great hulk of the old coal stove in the basement of my parents' house, since they didn't believe in using the electric heaters, either.

All of this cold and dark is something of a passion-killer, to say the least. Forget about rolling around like greased naked seal pups on a sheepskin rug in front of roaring fire. I want to put on my warmest pajamas, grab a hot water bottle, and crawl under the covers. To sleep until spring. Hibernation, not procreation.

That of course, is directly at odds with the Plan. For those of you just tuning in, a swift recap- we're going to shag like bunnies for the next three months, hope that this last ditch effort at getting pregnant works, failing which we go straight to IUI, do not pass Go, and certainly do not collect two hundred dollars (quite the opposite). However, the bunnies part of the equation hadn't reckoned on the factors like how offputting it is when your beloved hops into bed with feet that are LIKE ICE BLOCKS, dear God, get those away from me this instant. The bunnies part of it overlooked the fact that I am simply not at my alluring best when bundled up in enough layers to pass as a body double for the Michelin Man.

And still, we can but try. I can just about bear it, as long as I can keep my fuzzy socks on. I know it's not sexy, but then again, neither is hypothermia.

In the frying pan

I am just back from one of our disheartening trips out to see a potential house purchase. We do this from time to time- get it into our heads that with the property market being what it is, we really should be investing in some sort of small holiday home. Plus the fact that it would be nice to have a place out of town to get away to at the weekend, especially if we were ever in a family sort of way.

Unfortunately, we always end up plunging headlong and screaming into the gap between expectation and reality.

Take today, for example. We drove for over an hour, through surprisingly heavy traffic, to look at a house that, on paper at least, would have ticked a lot of boxes. Once there, we parked the car, and walked up and down the narrow sea-lashed street. We peered into the window. The glorious views promised in the brochure were, on this cold January day, simply bleak. The quaint harbour walls were slimy with moss, and the neighbouring houses appeared neglected and crumbling, in a vaguely sinister way. An unappealing caravan park lay just down the road.

We got back in the car and drove straight home. En route we had our usual argument about where to live, should we move, should we stay...a discussion so repetitious we could have it in our sleep. We arrived in a fractious, frazzled state, collapsing exhausted on the couch with cups of tea, wondering why we spent the whole day off subjecting ourselves to this kind of exercise.

Sometimes I think we just need something to take our minds off the current state of infertility- to seek out something, ANYTHING- other than dwelling on that one seemingly insurmountable problem. I worry though that one day we may actually overcompensate, finding ourselves with a shedload of other difficulties- i.e waking up to discover we have bought AN OLIVE FARM! IN SPAIN! Or whoops, I 've moved- to New York City! That would certainly be an interesting distraction, but probably not the sort of thing one wants to undertake as a casual diversion....

It's just that sometimes it takes such an effort to stay in the frying pan, rather than throwing oneself into the fire...to sit still long enough to figure out what is really right in any given situation. To know when is "long enough".

Got grip?

Having spent a few days wandering around extorting myself under my breath to "Get a grip, get a grip," I think I finally have. Got one. A grip, that is.

Part of this comes from the scale of the tsunami disaster in South East Asia. Really, how can that not give me at least some sense of perspective? However, having said that, while it's well and good that I should be able to recognise this, I'd probably be tempted to punch out the lights of anybody who would actually dare suggest it to me. Perspective of that kind seems best when processed through one's own filter, you know what I am saying?

As it happened, I found my grip again at a family Christmas gathering a couple days ago. These events are always something of a pain in the neck, since it involves getting ourselves to an island off the coast of Scotland. Now, before you start sighing at the charming quaintness of such a notion, let me just point out that taking a ferry across choppy, open water in gale force winds in December is NOT a happy folk song of an event. No, no, no. It wasn't too bad going out as long as I stood in the biting cold air looking at the horizon. But then, horror of horrors, the evening service back to the mainland was abruptly cancelled, leaving us stranded at said family members' tiny flat for the night. Other people were already having the sofa bed, which left us with the sub-sofa bed. Groan.

I confess that this did not uplift my mood. For starters, I hadn't packed an overnight bag. No toothbrush, no face wash, nada. As an aside I should comment that I don't know when I turned into such a big weenie about that kind of thing. Once upon a time I used to be quite happy to rough it. I've slept in a number of very odd places during my travels- bus shelter alcoves, garden sheds, graveyards, you name it.

But somewhere along the way that kind of thing has really lost its allure. Along with whatever remnants of natural beauty I might have ever possessed. Trust me, there's a reason I wear stuff like eyeliner and foundation. And it would be different if we were staying somewhere random amongst strangers, who would never have to see my visage again. But not quite such a treat to have to appear bare-faced in front of say, my sister-in-law. Luckily, on this occasion I had some emergency slap to hand in my purse, so I knew all would not be lost, but it still wasn't pretty.

Then there is the small matter of having one's period. I am no shrinking violet, and this is generally no big deal. But eight people sharing one small bathroom, which incidentally has no bin or trash disposal of any kind?

Flushing down the delicate loo pipes is not an option- the horror, if it clogged, would be unthinkable. But what the hell do you do with the discarded, um, product? Wrap it up and try to sneak it into the kitchen trash bag when no one is looking? Oh wait, everyone is milling around outside the kitchen. Throw it out the window? Hide it somewhere and come back for it later? Stash it in one's handbag?

Yeesh.

Finally I decided that I would have to accept that the whole situation was simply going to be generally less than ideal, so I might as well just suck it up. Another mince pie while we watch the news? Oh yes, why the fuck not, thanks. Yes, go on, pour on some of that there cream. More. More cream. I said MORE. Thank you. Another large brandy? Sure. That would be lovely. Oh lookie here, there is my grip, floating in the bottom of the glass.

Having found it, I just hope I can hold onto it for awhile.

Episode Three- Return of the Mare

Sometimes, it's the little things that uplift us the most. And for those of you who have followed the Good Desk saga so far, there is now a new installment to resolve this exciting trilogy.

To recap- in Episode One, A New Hope, I revealed how the prospect of improved office seating hung in the balance. But I resolved to let go, to use the Force, and to let the universe guide my steps. Oh, and to basically display a total lack of assertiveness in getting what I wanted.

Insert John Williamsesque soundtrack musak here.

Things then took a dark turn in Episode Two, The Empire Strikes Back as the forces of an evil bureaucracy finally defeated my claim. Frozen in carbonite, I returned to my veal crate to sulk, and shrivel due to lack of natural lighting.

Insert gloomy John Williamsesque soundtrack muzak here.

Then, out of the blue, an announcement of yet another office reshuffle. The desk's occupant was slated for a move to a different department. So, through disciplined Jedi mind control, (and by bribing the secretary with chocolate), I made my move. The Good Desk is now officially mine. I shifted all my files today, and transferred my phone line. My plants are so much happier. I am so much happier.

Insert triumphant John Williamsesque soundtrack muszak here.

But nobody stays at the Good Desk for long. Which must mean that surely I must be about to get pregnant and go on maternity leave?

International Jetsetter

GAH! Where has the week gone? How is it Thursday already?

I know I haven't been writing quite as much as usual. This is due, in part, to the fact that there is nuffin' much happening on the baby front. We may get some SA results for E. sometime next week, or we may not. We are a little confused how one goes about obtaining these, since the instructions for the test had big bold letters at the bottom in flashing neon saying: WE WILL NOT GIVE OUT RESULTS OVER THE TELEPHONE.

Well, OK, fair enough. But if we phone, will you tell us how to get the results? Or are we supposed to write to you to ask you to post us the results? Or fax them? Or will it be our special secret to share with our RE when we see him next? Oh, what a little mystery.

Another reason is that I am working quite long hours at the moment. This involves sitting at my desk in front of a computer, furrowing my brow and wracking my brains to come up with cogent, lucid and relevant material. I do this for an unbroken eight or nine hours a day, with a half hour for lunch, gulping some sustenance before returning to the salt mines. So you can probably understand why I haven't been exactly keen to come home to sit at my desk in front of the computer to wrack my brains to come up with witty & interesting posts.

Apart from the sheer brain strain, I find that the lower half of my body is perilously close to seizing up, or developing deep vein thrombosis. It's cold in the flat too, with the entirely inadequate heating system as found in most houses in this country, so every fifteen minutes or so I have to get up and run around to try to get the blood circulating. Which breaks the chain of thought.

Lastly, I have had lots of other scurrying around to do to get ready for my stint as an international jetsetter! I am really pleased at how my travel arrangements have worked out, even if it means a slightly insane schedule and needing about twenty five different types of clothing to accommodate all the different climates. This weekend, Amsterdam for E's birthday. Next weekend, Florida, to see my parents.

I think I may have already mentioned, I am something of an anxious traveler. I like to be at the airport six or seven hours early to board flights ( I jest, but not by much). I have a complicated handbag/carry-on arrangment and I always worry that somehow they won't let me on with both things, or try to make me check my carry-on. Since my handbag is invariably pushing my luck a bit, with something verging on a large tote stuffed to the gunnels with books, magazines and spare knickers. But there is no way I am parting with the carry-on either, which contains essentials such as larger presents, make-up, and clothes which I want to wear on the trip but worry will get lost if checked through. Did I mention there is a lot of worry involved together with luggage separation anxiety.

One of my travel nightmares nearly came true a few years ago. Coming home after Christmas, due to bad weather, we were routed through a different airport and made to stay overnight at a hotel before boarding an entirely different airline for the second leg home. This in itself would not have been a problem, except the airline seemed to think that our luggage, which we had checked at the start, should be sent on ahead on a DIFFERENT plane.

We tried to explain that really, this was inadvisable, since our bags would arrive about 12 hours ahead of us. Where said bags would go round and round on the carousel, uncollected. Until somebody decided to walk off with our stuff. Our bags, full of special Christmas pressies and goodies.

This was pre 9/11. Where the airlines still thought it was somehow sane to load up planes with bags with no passenger on board.

It took some serious cajoling to reunite us with our luggage. Shooting my best laser beam death ray eyes, I think I may have threatened, or um, volunteered to go into the holding bin or whatever to physically remove our items. To this day, E. refers to my encounter with the customer service representative in tones of hushed awe.

Also, it can be tricky to remember which passport to use when. And not get stopped, as I did several years ago, by the evil airline security for having the audacity to travel to a certain destination on a completely valid, yet somehow nonetheless "wrong" passport. I mean, really. Cut us international jetsetters/dual citizen types some slack, willya?!

I'll be back early next week, no doubt with lots of riotous stories to tell about our visit to Amsterdam. Even though we are very boring, and would certainly never engage in the kind of debauchery that apparently goes on there. Debauchery, us? Of course not. How could you think such a...well, I did hear a rumour there was a museum with a gigantic chair shaped like a penis. We might have to check that out.

I mean, it is a museum, after all. Culch-chure.

Lagjetted

I was hoping to have a chance this weekend to ruminate over, then write about, certain aspects of my trip to the familial home in Florida. But it looks like it may take me a little longer than I had thought to regain equilibrium here.

Traveling between time zones and countries is always a little disorienting, but this time seems particularly bad. Apparently, according to E., I sat straight up in bed in the middle of the night and shouted, "Where am I?"

My body clock is clearly confused. I never master the whole sleep-on-the-plane during night flight- then stay- awake-until bedtime when back in UK, thus reducing awkward jet lag. This trip was no different. Instead, I watched all the movies and read my book under the dim shine of the cabin light before arriving, exhausted, in London where I promptly fell asleep on one of the few reclining chairs in the airport. I then had a further nap when I got back to the flat in the Other City. This screwed things up completely when it came time for "normal bed time".

Then there is the obvious, um, difference in the weather. Florida last week? Sunny, warm, glorious, relaxed. Scotland this week? Cold, dark, wet, gloomy. I am having my usual crisis of wondering why it is I live here. E. keeps reminding me that visiting is not the same living there. An obvious fact, to be sure, but one which is easily overlooked in the pangs of regret that tend to accompany the return to life in Scotland.

Lastly, I have been trying to lavish lots of love and attention on my much neglected E.. But it's somewhat hard to be at my affectionate and perky best when my eyes feel like burnt holes in the landscape of my head, reeling from cultural whiplash, and contemplating certain grim realities. Namely, returning to work tomorrow morning. Oh, and let us not forget my HSG tomorrow afternoon. The joys, the joys.

E. can't come with me to the appointment, so I must now figure out how to make my way by public transport or taxi to the hospital, and then depending on his timetable and whether he can collect me afterwards, how to get home again. Also when to take my valium tablet, bearing in mind I may also have negotiate complicated paying of the bill before procedure. All of this is preoccupying me somewhat, whereas in an interesting role reversal, E. is more focused on things like when we are going to set up the Christmas tree and start writing our seasonal greeting cards.

Is it any wonder I am tetchy, bristling like a fretful porpentine.

Election Day

Today I discovered that there is nothing like a presidential election to take one's mind off those otherwise burning questions- you know, like, am I pregnant? Are my boobs looking bigger or am I just getting chubby from eating too many bowls of ice cream while I sit on my blogging ass? If I am not pregnant, where the fuck is Waldough ? And should I go pee on something for good measure?

Happily, all those thoughts have been wiped clean out of my tiny mind by the never ending media onslaught that is the Race to the White House 2004.

You'd think that the election was taking place in Britain, since the news coverage is so intense, and everybody here is taking such an interest. I think it would be fair to say that folks are fairly riveted. People were stopping by my desk all day to talk about it- had I voted? How did that work? Who did I vote for? What would I do if Bush won? (I never know how to answer that one- I mean, I can't very well say "leave the country", cause, um, I kind of already did that.) Colleagues at work actually stopped talking about babies and their children for at least five minutes to discuss world politics instead! It was very exciting!

I think the thing is, people recognise that the results of today's election will have a long term and significant impact on Britain. After all, the Americans are not just electing a president, they are choosing Tony Blair's new best friend.

The time difference is proving something of a pain in the ass though. I have an early meeting tomorrow morning, which rules out any ideas of staying up til the wee small hours to see a glimpse of which way the cookie is crumbling, or the final result . That is of course, if the wolf packs of lawyers can be kept under control.

I also have to laugh as I witness what is being presented as something of an immense hoo-ha over the new automated balloting machine thingies. There's no paper trail! Gah! The screen went blank! The memory card failed as we were moving it! Pass the provisional ballot! Call the lawyer!

I mentally compare it to the process here. When I vote in Britain, I go to my assigned polling station, and walk straight in, and the nice lady sitting at the collapsible card table on the folding chair ticks my name off on a long list. Then she hands a slip of paper and a stubby pencil. Yes, that's right, a stubby pencil. I kid you not.

I make a big X next to whoever I want to win, fold the slip in half, stick it in the wooden box, and away I go. Later on, the slips are all counted through the night by hand by people sitting at a big long table in the various districts throughout the country. For big elections, a news presenter called Peter Snow follows the results with statistical analysis in the form of the famous Swing-o-meter. I saw him on Newsnight or whatever that programme was last night doing something similar with a gigantic graphic of the United States, which cheered me up no end.

I love voting here, it's really sweet, a little eccentric and rather charming. It no doubt lacks most of the hype and frenzy, and of course, anything like the scale or import of voting in the USA. And to be honest that is all quite refreshing. Though right at this particular moment in my cycle, the distraction of events over the water is very welcome indeed.