It's the fag end of January, the last of the late Christmas cards has plopped onto the mat, all of the cheese and chocolate has been scoffed and every single one of my new year's resolutions has been abandoned in favour of a hopeful, catch all 'will do better' crie de coeur.
Nothing much new has leapt out in front of me in recent weeks and if I keep this level of whining up, I'll be nominated by friends and family for the Moany Old Cow of the Year award. I've already had a couple of concerned calls and emails in response to a recent string of facebook status updates. They'd be mobilising the national guard if I was in the habit of writing what I really feel like day to day...
Today my true status would read:
"On the way to 49, feeling sick & dizzy as my life rushes past me. Help"
Is there a direct causal link between the increasing size of my backside and the shrinking aspiration of my social life? I use the word aspiration advisedly. When I was younger, I used to long for glittering parties, gorgeous, beboob-tubed pals in slingbacks and stretchy skirts to go out with and drive sexy looking, rich chaps bonkers as we skipped by in a haze of Opium and cheap liquour.
Now what I want, what I really really want - is a decent cuppah and maybe a chocolate hobnob... and if I must go out then I want a cab - paid for both ways and a seat when I get there! Yes I bloody well do.
After a bit more planning this week, I will begin a new writing project - which will start proper on my 49th Birthday - 13th February - thanks for asking... I was always secretly disappointed that my mother didn't clamp her legs shut for a few more hours, so romantic to be born on Valentines Day.
Still I do like to imagine the postman thinks me very popular, and apparently childbirth isn't a matter of applying will power. I wouldn't know, I've never been in the family way - another thing to ponder in Moanyary!