Oh well

Oh well, it seems I'm not pregnant. So it's back on that old merry-go-round again.

No point in writing about it, as I've said it all before.

Pah.


___

Dry

I'm a bit... drained.

We went to Scotland for the weekend, and it was lovely, but... well, it was North East Scotland, which is significantly far away from Manchester, and a long way to go for a weekend, and my mind, or my body, or my soul, or all three, were playing up.

All this New Life Stuff (I think I'll be allowed to let the cat out of the bag soon, don't worry) is a bit scary, and a bit difficult, and a bit Totally Different, and apparently all Big Life Change is stressful, whether technically Good or Bad or Indifferent. I mean, like, according to clever Psychological Sciencey types wot do experiments and like to be empirical and all that, winning the lottery is just as stressful as going bust, and christenings are as hard as funerals, and I may well have mentioned this before, and yadda yadda yadda.

And then I find myself having massive mood swings, and my head going all fuzzy and bussy and my insides wound tight like a tightly wound thing, and the obvious conclusion is PMT, or maybe stress, or pregnancy... and then I start getting headaches, and waking up in the middle of the night with bile in my mouth or nausea and raging hunger, and getting REALLY ANNOYED about nothing in particular, or crying for no reason, and having intense heartburn, and again, it might be pregnancy, or it might be stress... or PMT...

And if it IS pregnancy, I might get ill, really ill, and if I don't get ill that might be because there's something wrong like last time, and then I might have another miscarriage (and how fucked up is THAT - that the surest sign of a healthy pregnancy would be vomiting to the point of life-threatening dehydration - fun, I don't think), and I've only ever been pregnant twice before, and both experiences were utterly horrendous for totally different reasons, and anyway I might NOT be pregnant and that too would make me sad, which makes me utterly fucked whichever way up you look at it...

...and then there's the Big Life Stuff...

But it's not healthy in the least for me to stress and obsess, so I have to breathe deeply and skoosh the negative thoughts away and tell myself everything will be fine, and stop fixating on the future and enjoy the present, but that's hard cos I keep bursting into tears or having my head threaten to explode, and I don't know whether that's because I'm stressing and obsessing and not thinking the right way about things, or if it's hormones (either she's-pregnant hormones or she's-not-pregnant hormones - again, fucked from each end and sideways) and therefore outside my control...

But fuck all that. I refuse to worry. Que sera. Everything changes. And I'm sure there's a whole bucket of cliches just waiting to be mined for all of it.

And anyway, it rained all day today, all the way from NE Scotland to NW England, and this was a VERY GOOD THING, because as I explained to everyone when they kept tutting over the weather forecasts, I would far rather drive in rain than in hot sun. Seriously though, why would anyone, even a sun-loving person (which I am not) want to sit in a small tin box in early July sunshine? Rain just means you have to drive a bit slower sometimes. It doesn't affect your whole body. It doesn't give you cancer. It doesn't turn an already-grumpy woman into a seething mood-boil of unlanced anger pus.

So, there you go. Hurrah for rain.


___

Stubborn or Pragmatic?

I like to think of myself as philosophical; prone to rationalisation. Looking on the bright side.

A very high percentage of pregnancies don't make it to twelve weeks.

It happens all the time.

I knew it was a possibility.

It wasn't my fault. I was well-behaved to the point of obsession. I did all the things you're supposed to do when you're pregnant, and then some. I couldn't have done any more to protect my unborn child.

Just because something went wrong this time, means nothing for any future pregnancies. A very many people have miscarriages followed by healthy babies.

It probably meant something was seriously wrong. It's better that my body dealt with it early in a natural way, rather than facing difficult decisions later on.

It gives me more breathing time, before doing the baby thing again.

It's not unusual for people to get pregnant again very quickly.

It's not helpful to fall apart. There's a lot to look forward to. Stress is bad, calmness is good. I'm fine, I'll be fine.

These are the things I think. I'm a logical person. OK, I'm emotional too. But I like to reason things through. And it's a helpful tendency at times like this. I can give myself reasons to feel all right, and it makes me feel all right.

But there are emotions there too. Loss: Of plans, of potential, of bumps. If I want to I can talk about babies, and small hands. I have a strong capacity for drama, for exaggeration, for hysteria. I could hype it up, wind myself up, very quickly and easily if I let myself. But I don't want to. I don't think it helps.

But when the emotions beat the logic, I don't even know whether it's me, or just the hormones. I'm in a right old grump at the moment for instance, and it's got the external jittery edge of PMT. Which it more or less is.

But is it unhealthy to be as calm, as cheerful, as matter of fact about the whole thing as I am being? Am I really coping well, or just refusing to dip down below the surface. There's only so long you can stand on a surfboard. Eventually your legs will give way, or the tide will carry you to shore.

I was so pleased with myself, for not getting hyperemesis. But it could have been a sign that all was not well. Which is deeply ironic. I nearly died when I was pregnant with Felix, I was so ill. This time I was glad to escape near-death, and yet my good health may have been a symptom of ill health on the part of the pregnancy. Pah.

And now, of course, I have to go through all that again. Preparing for serious illness, and months of debilitation. The chance that I'll get ill is still 60% - i.e. more likely than not. Pah again. But that's one of the things I'm refusing to think about.

This post was interrupted by a phone call from a friend, who said that I can be repressed if I want. I don't have to be super-well-adjusted, I can be a mess. That's ironic too - that my calm pragmatism may in fact be evidence that I'm maladjusted. Ha. That's funny.

I've just done three long phone conversations in a row, and I'm knackered. And bored of talking about this. I have bags to pack. See you in a few days.


___

Random Feelings

Images. There are pictures associated with all this stuff. A foetus curled up on a computer screen, a tiny hand in a public toilet. When I contemplate their impact, I think of initial reactions. To the first: curiosity, followed by sobbing when the picture was joined by explanations. To the second: detached curiosity. What I forget is that images stay with you, to be re-examined, often whether you like it or not. And reactions can change. The level of distress caused by the image is not constant or predictable.

Curiosity. I come from a family of scientists; questions are bred into me. I think it does Ally's head in sometimes. I can see why. I keep asking about things which might seem, well, tasteless. I'll spare you the detail, but there are a lot of biological matters and, well, matter, to be curious about. I know a lot of people would react differently.

Words. In a conversation with Ally last week, I wanted to make reference to the first image mentioned above. The one on the computer screen. I couldn't find a way of referring to it that wasn't loaded with pain, pathos or bad taste. In the end I just said, "that thing we had to see".

Pain. Yesterday I found myself hoping the cramps would start again, so that I could take more co-codamol. And then I realised the tablets were treating more than one kind of pain. But still I refused to cry.

Reactions. I felt as though a friend was chastising me for not exhibiting more pain. She was worried that I was repressing my emotions, that I was pushing myself too hard. I am stubborn, I'll admit that. Determined to be strong. Sympathy, in the flesh, standing in front of me and not giving me the choice to respond at leisure (as it does when it comes in email or online form) makes me impatient and squirmy. I cry when I want to. Not on demand.

Today. Another scan. "Retained products of conception". It doesn't mean much - just that it's not quite over yet. A bit more ickiness to come, but the worst has passed. Not enough to prevent us going to Wales. This means we are now in "Conservative Management of Miscarriage" territory, and have opted out of "Medical Management". I object to the terminology. I have never been conservative in my life.

Waiting Rooms I. This time we read, and didn't talk. Occasionally I laid my head on his shoulder, just to say Yes, I'm here with you, you're important. Physical contact can mean so much. I've started reading The Plain Truth, which I love. Interestingly enough, it contains the term "retained products of conception", which I read therein yesterday, and was intrigued by, all the more so when I saw it reappear on the radiologist's report today. The Plain Truth contains subject matter which is disturbingly connected to my own life right now, but it's everywhere. Babies, pregnancies, small children. You can't escape them. They're part of life.

Waiting Rooms II. A fascinating exchange between Farting Burping Mother who had just had a hysterectomy, and Shouting Daughter who was angry with the whole world, including her mum, including the taxi driver who drove away because Shouting Daughter had nipped out to buy paracetamol for Mother, who claimed she had Gone Shopping. "Shopping! Where are my shopping bags then, eh? Shopping!" and "It's your fault for making me buy paracetamol!" and "Shut up and stop whingeing!"

The Thing You Do

That thing you do, of finding the words of a stranger and looking only for points of contact. Well maybe you don't do it, but I do.

And so when I found furtive's blog, just now, I was struck by the things we have in common. The drive to share whatever is uppermost in our minds and the accompanying worry about whether this is "appropriate" or not. But mostly the urge to splurge.

I have no idea whether we have anything else in common (apart from miscarriage, which is what prompted me to read her blog in the first place) (I hope it's all right to mention that) (I think it probably is), but I read her blog and think, kindred spirit. You are not me, so you may not agree. But you should still go and have a look.

Incidentally, she has also written an interesting post on the subject of meeting people in cyberspace. I've never really thought of it like that.


___

Hunger

I wasn't starving hungry when I woke up this morning.

It seems my body is finally getting the message.

Thank fuck for that.


___

Incohe

Getting increasingly incoherent now.

I wanted to say something about confidence, and something about list shows.

The challenge now is to rememeber what those two things are. But it was definitely a good move to write down what I was planning to say in advance. It's what you're supposed to do when you write an essay for A level French - start by telling them what you're going to say, then say what you're going to say, then tell them what you just said. I always thought that was all about structure, sense and some kind of aesthetic. But now I think it's a cunning way of giving a bit of a leg-up to alcoholics and other people who are mentally disadvantaged. Like women who are in the middle of a miscarriage and are a bit monged out on co-codamol, paracetamol, John Smith's Extra Smooth and Manchester's finest pollen. If you start out by writing what you are planning to write, you won't then find yourself halfway through the piece on some kind of massive tangent and with no clue what the hell you're supposed to be writing about.

So, confidence. And list shows.

Wtf?

Oh arse, I committed a cardinal error. I didn't expand. How the hell am I supposed to know what that means?

Confidence. Hmmm. Ah, it's coming back to me... something about how I'm more confident to do something or other... yes. I've got it. I don't normally document my life in detail, and am increasingly reluctant to be honest about everything that happens, because there are too many people reading and I don't know who they are.

But the thing which has broken that barrier is so much more personal and raw than any of the things I've hesitated to write about. And suddenly I'm being all honest and open and documenting every minute. I haven't done that for ages.

Well, yes. That was it, really. A half-formed thought.

And the other thing. List shows. I can't see a connection, to be honest. That's probably because there wasn't one. But we do like list shows, chez Sudbery-Fogg. Tonight we have watched The 450 Top Comedians' Comedians and are now on the Top Most Annoying Songs you Hate To Love.

Even a film would seem long at three hours. But list shows... the entertainment just goes on and on. The concept will never disappointment.

You think I'm joking. I'm not.


___

Apollo Gee

Sorry.

Again.

It just seems to be working for me. I would expect the number of readers to dwindle the more graphic I get, but human nature ain't like that. You'll be intrigued, horrified, empathetic, drawn back for more. But you won't be enjoying it.

Not that I'm trying to entertain you. It's just that...

Oh God, even though I've always had that drive to fit in, to act how I'm supposed to, to not make a fuss, to not upset anyone... there's also this other me, frustrated by the British lack of honesty. And I know that keeping things private isn't the same as lying, but come on. It causes damage.

It hurts people when teenagers know fuck all about reproduction or love or tenderness or understanding, when they launch themselves at each other without the faintest clue about half of human life because nobody's ever bothered to tell them.

When pain and anger are either buried and glossed over or exaggerated and scandalised, and there's something vulgar about presenting in detail your bodily habits, your innermost feelings, your sexual desires or the ways that you hurt, it's just wrong.

I've never been any good at covering things up. I'm always blurting things out, saying things I shouldn't, sharing things you wouldn't, and getting myself into trouble.

And I'm a novelist. We look for the drama in things. We want to write everything down. We want to observe, make notes, save up our experiences to use them a later date. We want to move people; make them cry.

Clearly I've been told off for this behaviour enough times that I'm reticent, hesitant; my honesty is accompanied by self doubt.

But that's rubbish. And you never know, this might not just be therapy, or ego food, or Tourette's. Maybe it'll actually be useful.

Maybe it won't.

But maybe it will.


___

Non Pregnant

It was a relief when it happened in the end.

Even though it happened in the toilets at our local Asda supermarket.

Well, it happened in the checkout queue, but I had chocolate biscuits and hand-cooked crisps sitting on the conveyor belt, and I wasn't about to lose them.

And the scene I will describe sounds horrific and will probably make you sad, but I was floating in some different plane, detached and vaguely intrigued.

I had assumed this moment would represent the height of my grief. That's been happening with spooky consistency. I am unable to predict my reactions. I thought I would be fine; I haven't been. I thought I would cry when Felix heard the news; I didn't. I thought I would cry the most when it finally came out, but in fact I calmly washed it off, tried to examine it, tried to make it look like something, but could see nothing but a hand. A small, squashed, webbed hand.

So I flushed it down the toilet.

The placenta was rather beautiful. Like a perfect pebble, or a Werther's Original made of jelly.

I've been unexpectedly depressed today. I woke up this morning miserable. I had that torpor you get with low mood. Walking in a shuffle. Standing and staring at nothing in Asda. Staying in the same seat, gazing at the same digital TV channel, until twenty-five past healthy.

But when I walked out of that toilet, I had a spring in my step. It's over. I don't have to go into hospital. It's gone.

Of course now I'm bleeding everywhere and everything hurts and I'm off my face on every painkilling substance I can get my hands on, but hey. I'm on the other side.

I'm on my way out.


___

"Woo-hoo"

I just logged in to Twitter online for the first time in several months. There was a message waiting for me, a very old one. Congratulating me for being pregnant.

I guess there's going to be a lot of that kind of thing. Another argument for not telling people until you reach the magical 12-week point.

I was talking to a friend last night, who lost a baby at four or five months. She said for months afterwards she would bump into people who didn't know what had happened, and would ask after the new baby. She said it was always worse for them than it was for her. I can believe that.


___

Don't Make a Fuss

I took Felix to the cinema recently, and he dropped his popcorn all over the floor.

“Never mind,” he said instantly. “It doesn’t matter.”

He gets that from me. Don’t make a fuss. Don’t worry. Don’t sweat the petty stuff.

Before we went into hospital on Thursday morning, I went to the toilet again. I hoped there'd be something to see, because otherwise I'd have been making a fuss about nothing.

When the nurse asked questions about the blood, about the pain, I found myself wanting to exaggerate. Because what I had to report was so small, so vague. I didn’t want to waste her time.

After we’d found out the fuss we were making was about something and not nothing, we went home. That night, we got pissed. We got pissed and stoned and we made jokes to each other.

I was worried that one of the literary agents might read the announcement on my blog; might delay getting in touch out of respect. I wanted to go back and edit: “P.S. If you’re a literary agent, don’t let the fact that I’ve just lost a baby put you off. Call me!”

We both thought it would be funny. But people wouldn’t get the joke. They’d be appalled.

When bad things happen to people, everyone tiptoes around them. Don’t mention death, or babies, or blood. Don’t make jokes.

That’s fair enough: it’s hard to know what’s right. It’s your job though, not ours. Why should we be pussyfooting around our own selves? But we are. There’s a strong sense that we should behave in a certain way. We’re not allowed to get over it and move on, not allowed to make jokes, not allowed to be drunk and silly, not allowed to be ourselves. We have to mourn.

And of course we do, we are, we will. But...

We ended up posting this on the Big Chill forum, and it made us feel a bit better.

Still, I feel bad about this which was posted last night, drunk and stoned and depressed. It seems wrong, somehow. But why?

This morning I found my other post wasn’t shortlisted for Post of the Week, and it hurt. I was glad when it was nominated. Why? I’m not sure. There’s the ego thing, of course. But it’s not just that. And I’m not making any claims for the quality of the writing, really I’m not. I can’t begin to be objective about that: When I read it, all I see is the content - and even that through a salty mist. But I can’t help wondering... was it decorum that saw it excluded from the shortlist? Did the POTW editorial team think it wasn’t appropriate? Did they feel the need to protect me? Or their readers? Or maybe it was just a rubbish post.

We watched the pilot episode of Six Feet Under last night, which we have on DVD. There was a lot of death, mourning, blood, funerals. Nate and David, fellow sons of a funeral director, had a fight about propriety around a grave. What kind of grief is acceptable, appropriate?

And can you call it grief when the dead body is so tiny, so unreal? Was never actually a person?

And it wasn’t. I seem to have a deep-rooted instinct for self preservation on that score. I could never believe in Felix as a living human being until I held him in my arms - and even then it took a while. My mind bounced off all thoughts of babies, and I didn’t want to look at baby clothes or, in this case, use the name Felix gave it.

It’s the promise that’s lost. Not a human being, but the potential for one.

My mum said that when it happened to her, she thought about writing an article for the Guardian. She still remembers what she was going to say: that it wasn’t the loss of a person, so much as the loss of a way of life. She was in the middle of something, and then suddenly she wasn’t. And all those plans dissolved.

I have similar plans, maps and calendars in my head. All gone.

But I don’t want to make a fuss. Don’t want to be a nuisance. Don’t want to upset anyone, or do the wrong thing.

And right now, I think people might be annoyed with me. Because I told the whole world, before I reached twelve weeks. And it wasn’t ignorance - I know full well that a high proportion of pregnancies don’t make it past the first trimester. I reasoned that if anything went wrong, I’d rather people knew - and that way I’d be more likely to get sympathy and support. I’d heard that people regret having told nobody, because it means there is noone to understand.

And I have, I've had an astonishing amount of support. Emails, texts, comments, phone calls. You're all lovely. Please don't think I'm not grateful.

But perhaps some of you are thinking, “What did she have to go and tell us for? We could have been spared all this.”

And here I am, making a fuss.

But don’t worry, it’s only popcorn. It doesn’t really matter.


___

Half Pregnant

I'm in this weird half-pregnant state at the moment.

I still have sore boobs, still have a big belly, still need the loo all the time, amd still permanently hungry.

I still have a baby inside me, it's just that it's a dead baby and it has to come out, and I just have to watch and wait.

It's 2cm long.

Sorry. Sorry you had to read that.

But this is how it is. This is what's happening.

Sorry.


___

Aftermath

I wasn't looking forward to telling Felix. We arranged for the next door neighbours to have him after school so we had a bit of respite, but at 6.15pm the moment arrived.

I arranged myself carefully on the sofa, took deep breaths.

"We have some bad news. The baby has died."

"But I was really looking forward to getting the baby." He bursts into loud sobs. "I want my baby!"

I thought it would make me cry, but all my attention was focused on comforting him. I was calm, and tearless. We told him that we are sad too. I worried that he wouldn't believe us.

He was inconsolable.

He was inconsolable for five minutes, but then he was distracted by hugs, and tickles, and giggles, and hot chocolate, and Shrek II. He made me feel so much better.

Later, the doorbell rang. A friend, running errands, being useful. Felix answered the door, and before she had taken a couple of steps, he made the announcement.

"Er," he said authoritatively (like a confident person getting the attention of a waiter. "Er, excuse me...")

"Er, I think we have some bad news," he said loudly. "Our baby's dead!"

It made me laugh, bless his little cotton socks.

It made me laugh.


___

Sound and Pictures

It is morning, and there is blood. Only a little, but... well, you know. My instant response is panic. But then I remember, when I was pregnant last time. There was “spotting,” as they call it. They told me to go to bed, to stay horizontal for a day or two. Not to worry.

So I go back to bed, and I try not to worry. My imagination teases me with awful thoughts, but I put it firmly in its place.

Then I ring the doctor’s. They tell me to go straight to hospital. They tell me gravity will make no difference. I am disgruntled. I was looking forward to a day in bed. It’s a big fuss about nothing, and I wish health professionals would make their minds up about what matters and what doesn’t.

We go to hospital, we bump into a friend in the waiting room, we crack jokes. Ally has taken the day off work, which touches me - because after all, this is a false alarm and no big deal.

I have brought supplies. I am prepared for a seige. In case they kidnap me and tie me to a hospital bed. I have cake, and fruit, and DVDs, and an iPod with a new audio book on it, and books to read, and spare pyjamas, and chocolate, and Clare’s Special Tea Bags. I eat a banana.

The nurse is sweet and pretty and apologises for interrupting my banana. She measures the usual stuff: blood pressure, temperature, etc. My signs are good. I feel apologetic about my ever-so-small bit of blood and really-quite-mild stomach pain. I am wasting everyone’s time.

“It’s probably just constipation,” I say.

“I need to let you know,” she says. “Bleeding and pain are not normal in pregnancy. There may be something wrong.”

It’s probably just constipation, I repeat to myself stubbornly.

After she’s gone we discuss her statement, which was obviously scripted and had the effect of punching me in the ribs. Why do they say such things? Surely it can’t help? It only encourages worry, and worry is Bad For Babies.

We are sent down for a scan. We sit in the waiting area, surrounded by pregnant ladies and their children. I marvel at one woman’s ability to handle two small children in a waiting room, heavily pregnant, on her own.

It crosses my mind that maybe I am about to be told bad news.

Don’t be silly, I tell myself. Everything is fine.

I feel some more discomfort, imagine myself collapsing right here on the floor, being carted away.

Don’t be silly, I tell myself. Everything is fine.

It’s just constipation.

I eat another banana.

You have to drink lots before a scan, so by the time I stand up I am dying for the loo and can barely walk.

They have to press down really hard to get a good picture. I forgot about this part. It’s not a comfortable experience, especially with a full bladder.

It’s OK though, because there it is on the screen. All curled up and cute. Aaah.

It doesn’t seem to be moving, but I don’t think they move much when they are only ten weeks old. Sometimes I think I see it twitch. She rearranges the scanner several times, viewing it from different angles. She measures it.

I wonder how she can tell whether it’s all right. Something to do with the heart, I think. Can they see it beating?

“Does it have a heart yet?” I say.

“Wait a minute,” she says, focusing on the screen.

Of course, she needs to concentrate on her job. She can‘t be expected to indulge in idle chit-chat.

Then she turns to me.

“It’s bad news I’m afraid,” she says. “I can’t find a heartbeat. The baby is dead.”

A flash second of calm realisation - that’s why she didn’t answer me before - and then the primal reaction kicks in. I curl away from her like a hedgehog, keening and sobbing and reaching for Ally at my side.

I’m trying to say things, but I can’t get beyond first consonants.

“I c...” (I can’t believe it).
“B...” (But).
“I s...” (I’m sorry).

I get a little articulation back.

"But are you sure? There's nothing you can do?"

“Sorry.”

It’s policy to get a second opinion, so I have to lie back again and let another radiologist have a go. I don’t look at the screen this time.

They go away, leave us alone. We cry. We hug. The dispassionate observer in me is glad. Has often wondered how good we’d be at supporting each other.

We want to hold each other. We are both upset, and able to share it. This is good.

There is a baby screaming outside in the corridor.

I want to go to the toilet. They want me to wait until we get upstairs. I don’t want to be a nuisance. But I don’t care about who or what I might bump into outside. I understand other people are still pregnant. Life goes on. And I go to the loo.

They lead us out of a Secret Back Door, so we don’t have to go back past the waiting mothers. The nice radiologist takes us back upstairs. Part of her job? How often does she have to do this? She looks very sad. She’s nice. She reminds me of Jodie Foster.

The nice nurse again. She talks to us about options. I eat a hot cross bun from my bag. I keep forgetting to wipe the tears away. She hands me tissues, which I twist in my hands.

I think about how upset Felix will be. He’ll be distraught. I can go to that yoga retreat in Spain now, in September. We can save up more money. We can get pregnant again. We’re good at getting pregnant.

We can hear someone sobbing in the next room. This must happen a lot.

It’s not over yet. There’s a dead baby inside me.

The nice nurse tells us our options: Let nature take its course, help it along with some drugs, or have a full surgical procedure: general anaesthetic, the lot.

Our friend’s father caught MRSA in hospital recently. We opt for the middle option: the drugs. They will admit me next Wednesday. It will take a day.

She gives me an injection, and some leaflets.

I have some questions, but the nurse doesn’t know the answers and looks a bit panicked. The doctor is coming in a minute. We can ask the doctor.

The doctor is another smiley young woman. Scottish, a little anxious, permanently on the verge of a nervous giggle. I like her, too.

She answers my questions: The baby has probably been dead for a fortnight. I don’t have to go to work. We can try again straight away. I feel better while I’m asking questions. Calmer, more in control.

We go home, we curl up on the sofa, we draw the curtains, we watch What’s Eating Gilbert Grape, together. Sometimes I cry.

Much much later, I remember something. Something I had forgotten. Something I know from my last pregnancy. Those ultrasound scans, they record audio as well as visual. You get to hear a heartbeat.

But all we heard was silence.

Should we have asked for a picture?


___

Bad News

Couldn't decide when / how / whether to announce this, but thought it best to get it out of the way asap.

I'm just back from the hospital, where we discovered we've lost the baby. Everything was fine until this morning, but it went downhill from there.

Please don't worry about me though, I am a bouncer-backer.

Cheers
Clare
xxx