Funny Face

My daughter is fucking hilarious.

She is starting to exhibit a wicked sense of humour.

Somewhat lacking in verbal skills, she has yet to hone her sparkling repartee. Equally her motor skills are limited. I'm chuffed if she can lift her own head even for a second - so physical comedy is mostly out.

Instead she is concentrating on scatological humour. 

Take for example the earlier today. I changed her nappy (diaper - keep up) which also included a complete outfit change on account of a little shit seepage. She waited until she was completely clean and dry and we were sitting back on the sofa. As I was telling her what a lovely, clean little girl she was she looked me straight in the eye, gave me a big smile (which the husband still insists is wind), and shat herself accompanied by a massive bubbling fart sound.

How we laughed as I got up to change her yet again.

But this isn't her only trick. The "shart" (shitting fart) is just one element in her repertoire.

My sister's told me that having a girl I'd avoid the hose-pipe urine spray from a tiny penis freed from a nappy. True, but what they forgot is I can still get caught by a projectile poo and pee. By simultaneously combining these activities she can force excrement from her changing mat a good 50cm onto one of my clean tops (it is always the clean ones).

They say the secret of good comedy is timing and she has this down to a fine art. She saves the noisiest farts for moments when I am whispering soothing sweet nothings into her ear. Or takes a piss just as I have removed her old nappy and put a fresh one under her - often not even waiting for it to be done up. 

There might not be any discernible physical resemblance between my daughter and I but maybe, just maybe, she has inherited my sense of humour.

Poor kid. 

About that 38-year-old woman extracting egg-freezing money as her husband disentangles himself from the marriage that didn't get her pregant.

Robert Stacy McCain took issue with my use of the phrase "best fertility years":

Professor Althouse, “the best fertility years of a woman’s life,” from a strictly scientific view, are ages 18-24. After age 27, fertility begins to decline and, in your 30s, that decline accelerates. So by the time Lieberman’s client married at 30, she was past her prime.

I responded:

So, I should have said her last good fertility years. When a woman marries at age 30, she's right if she thinks she's comfortably on track for childbearing. But if she turns out to have difficulty getting pregnant, as this woman did, what seemed like plenty of time can turn into an anxious struggle. I don't know what led to this particular divorce, but needing fertility treatments and enduring them without success must create pressure that some people don't handle very well. There's something very sad about a woman's desire to continue her struggle by extracting support from the husband who failed to make her pregnant. I recommend handling divorce with grace and realism, but a lot of economic advantage-taking can ensue, and you rarely know the whole story of who did what to whom and why a stepped-up legal attack seemed like a good idea. This is, above all, a failed relationship, and you can never see the ground level of that failure.

"They think they know where the targets are, they think they know how to hit it with enough force but not too much force, they think they know how the Russian and the Iranians will react."

"We cannot determine all this. On some level, we’re assuming the reaction from Russia and Iraq and Syria will be zero: We’ll carry out this attacks, and there’ll be no response. This is a bit of a sensitive subject, but the administration has been honest that they have no smoking gun that the attack was ordered by Assad. The evidence of his involvement is circumstantial. We’re two years into a civil war that he’s winning. The Russians and Iranians have told him not to use chemical weapons. Hezbollah has told him not to use chemical weapons because their fighters are at risk. So he’s winning, there’s scant and circumstantial evidence that he ordered the attack. Why are we gaming out his incentives when we don’t know he ordered it?"

Says Alan Grayson, a Democratic congressman from Florida, in an interview with Ezra Klein (who's been doing some excellent interviews lately).

Bloomberg says mayoral candidate de Blasio's campaign is not just "class warfare," it's "racist."

This comes in a New York Magazine interview. The interviewer immediately asks the simple question "Racist?" and Bloomberg says:

Well, no, no, I mean*...

The asterisk goes to a footnote that says they've inserted these words which they can't hear on their audiotape because the mayor's office asked them to.

... he’s making an appeal using his family to gain support. 

De Blasio has a black wife and mixed-race offspring, and he uses his family in photo ops and ads.

I think it’s pretty obvious to anyone watching what he’s been doing. I do not think he himself is racist. It’s comparable to me pointing out I’m Jewish in attracting the Jewish vote. You tailor messages to your audiences and address issues you think your audience cares about.

That doesn't make the campaign "racist"! He could have said "racial" or "race conscious."

But his whole campaign is that there are two different cities here. And I’ve never liked that kind of division. The way to help those who are less fortunate is, number one, to attract more very fortunate people. They are the ones that pay the bills. The people that would get very badly hurt here if you drive out the very wealthy are the people he professes to try to help. Tearing people apart with this “two cities” thing doesn’t make any sense to me. It’s a destructive strategy for those you want to help the most. He’s a very populist, very left-wing guy, but this city is not two groups, and if to some extent it is, it’s one group paying for services for the other.

It’s a shame, because I’ve always thought he was a very smart guy.

And it's a shame that Bloomberg said "racist" and dragged in the man's wife and kids, because he's got an important message here — warning New Yorkers away from excessive leftism. What a gift to de Blasio!

At an appearance in Brooklyn on Saturday with his wife and their 18-year-old daughter, Chiara, Mr. de Blasio called Mr. Bloomberg’s remarks “very, very unfortunate and inappropriate.”

“I’m exceedingly proud of my family,” he added. “I hope the mayor will reconsider what he said. I hope he realizes it was inappropriate.”

In her response to the mayor’s comments about her husband’s campaign, Ms. McCray said, “Do I look like an inanimate object? Or a tool? I walk, I talk and make my own decisions.”

Obama submits to 6 interrogations on Syria — by Diane Sawyer (ABC), Scott Pelley (CBS), Wolf Blitzer (CNN), Chris Wallace (Fox), Brian Williams (NBC), and Gwen Ifill (PBS).

Why is he doing this?

1. It gives each network something unique of its own to show on the night before Obama does his live address, so maybe this was part of a deal to insure that they'd all preempt regular programming for the live address.

2. It acknowledges our skepticism not only about Syria but about the journalists who have coddled and promoted him to us for so many years. Putting them in competition with each other creates an incentive for somebody not to be a lackey. 

3. It makes him look strong, alert, and vital in the midst of many observations that Obama looks tired and weak.

4. If he's so vigorous and ready to go to war, maybe Americans who say we're tired of war will rouse ourselves.

5. We're not just tired of war, we're tired of those damned journalists, but isn't there one person on that list of 6 that you're not tired of?

6. At least you can't accuse him of dodging the tough questioner on some other network. He's submitting to Fox too. (But Chris Wallace is kind of a sweetheart. Look at him here.)

ADDED: It's also possible that Obama, knowing the vote on Syria is already lost, is using the occasion to set up the congressional vote so that it will work to the best advantage of Democrats in the 2014 elections.

There's "a line between rhetorical hyperbole and defamation."

Said the court that let the climate scientist Michael Mann — he of the "hockey stick" — to continue with his lawsuit against the National Review. 

The court...  pointed to terminology such as “whitewashed,” “intellectually bogus,” “ringmaster of the [tree]-ring circus” and “cover-up” as “more than rhetorical hyperbole.”

The linked article miscorrects the joke "tree-ring circus" to "three-ring circus." Here's the blog post  that drove Mann to file a lawsuit — Mark Steyn calling attention to some football-and-hockey bad-taste humor.

"[T]he more exquisitely gender-sensitive the school environment became, the less resemblance it bore to the real business world."

"'Are we trying to change the world 900 students at a time, or are we preparing students for the world in which they are about to go?' a female professor asked."

"So I see the genius of our Constitution, and of our society, is how much more embracive we have become than we were at the beginning."

Said Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, embracing a word I can't remember ever noticing before and a constitutional theory I've seen 1,000s of times.

"Embracive" is listed in the OED. It means, first, "Given to or fond of embracing; embracing demonstratively," but this is a "nonce-use." The quote, from 1855, from Thackeray, is "Not less kind..though less expansive and embracive, was Madame de Montcontour to my wife." The second meaning, going back to 1897, is "Embracing or tending to embrace all." Examples:

1897 Academy 18 Sept. (Fiction Suppl.) 70/1 ‘George Du Maurier in three volumes’ would be a fair embracive title....

1902 Edinb. Rev. Oct. 357 Important deities have been omitted from this brief catalogue, which is much more representative than embracive....

I take it Ginsburg is deploying the word to mean inclusive, perhaps with more love/empathy/enthusiasm.

A divorcing woman seeks "$20,000 to cover her egg-freezing procedure, medication costs and several years of egg storage."

She put the last 8 years into a marriage, within which she expected to have babies and did not. Now, she's 38, and her window of fertility is almost closed.

Actually, in this particular case, the couple had used in vitro fertilization to attempt pregnancy, so there's some of this argument that she should be maintained in the style she'd become accustomed to. It's not just a matter of a man taking up the best fertility years of a woman's life and somehow owing her the nearest thing to giving back her youth.

ADDED: Robert Stacy McCain takes issue with my use of the phrase "best fertility years":

Professor Althouse, “the best fertility years of a woman’s life,” from a strictly scientific view, are ages 18-24. After age 27, fertility begins to decline and, in your 30s, that decline accelerates. So by the time Lieberman’s client married at 30, she was past her prime.

So, I should have said her last good fertility years. When a woman marries at age 30, she's right if she thinks she's comfortably on track for childbearing. But if she turns out to have difficulty getting pregnant, as this woman did, what seemed like plenty of time can turn into an anxious struggle. I don't know what led to this particular divorce, but needing fertility treatments and enduring them without success must create pressure that some people don't handle very well. There's something very sad about a woman's desire to continue her struggle by extracting support from the husband who failed to make her pregnant. I recommend handling divorce with grace and realism, but a lot of economic advantage-taking can ensue, and you rarely know the whole story of who did what to whom and why a stepped-up legal attack seemed like a good idea. This is, above all, a failed relationship, and you can never see the ground level of that failure.

"What are you pretending not to know?"

The first of Jason Nazar's "35 Questions That Will Change Your Life."

That's a great question. Nazar is 35 years old, and I remember becoming aware, when I was about that age, that I had many perceptions that felt as as if they belonged to another person. This other entity had a different vantage point, seemingly from above, looking on at everything, including at me, and the me that felt like me, the character who participated in life, somehow did not know all these things.

That sounds absurd (if not crazy), but once you become aware of this absurdity, you can integrate yourself and become as wise and knowing as you really are and stop playing the somewhat naive character you've allowed yourself to be in your various decisions and interactions.

"The Dung Beetle Is a Climate Change Hero."

Hail, dung beetle.

"To Be or Not to Be."

RLC emails to say that the great old Jack Benny/Carole Lombard movie (directed by Ernst Lubitsch) — which we loved in the 1970s — is out in a Criterion Collection edition. He notes the 97% positive rating by the critics collected at Rotten Tomatoes, and I see that the 3% negativity is accounted for entirely by the one review that comes from 1942, when the movie was released. It's Bosley Crowther in the NYT:

Perhaps there are plenty of persons who can overlook the locale, who can still laugh at Nazi generals with pop-eyes and bungle-some wits. Perhaps they can fancy Jack Benny, disguised be-hind goggles and beard, figuratively tweaking the noses of the best Gestapo sleuths.

Carole Lombard is, Crowther tells us, "very beautiful and comically adroit." Twice, in this short review, he informs us that this is her last movie. He writes the strange phrase "the feelings which one might imagine her presence would impose are never sensed." She's beautiful and dead, so he thought he was going to have feelings, but he's forced to see her there with that big old ham, the "radio comedian," Jack Benny:

Too often does he pout or grow indignant or pull a double-take. Of course, the script en-courages the old Benny legend of "ham." Once a German officer comments, laughing loudy, "What he did to Shakespeare we are doing now to Poland." That gives you a couple of ideas about this film.

How dare Jack Benny get the last of the beautiful and adroit Carole Lombard!

Anti-adoption activists.

"This coalition makes bedfellows of people who would ordinarily have nothing to do with each other..."

Mormon and fundamentalist women who feel they were pressured by their churches, progressives who believe adoption is a classist institution that takes the children of the young and poor and gives them to the wealthier and better-educated, and adoptive parents who have had traumatic experiences with corrupt adoption agencies.

"The fact is that Obama is the only president we have."

"We can’t abdicate our position in the world for the next three years. So Republicans will have to resist the temptation to weaken him when the cost is weakening the country. A party that for at least two generations has held high the banner of American leadership and strength should not cast a vote that obviously risks a damaging erosion of this country’s stature and credibility abroad."

 From Bill Kristol's explanation of why "yes" is the correct answer for Republicans.

Are you living a wholesome life?

The video here makes the best argument for living a wholesome life that I've seen in a long time.

"14 Principled Anti-War Celebrities We Fear May Have Been Kidnapped."

"Our government is yet again marching us towards a war of choice in the Middle East and our non-partisan, peace-loving celebrities have gone missing since late 2008. We fear the worst."

ADDED: We were just talking about this 2 days ago: "Where's Bruce Springsteen? He helped Obama get elected. Shouldn't he weigh in on the Syria question?"

Let's really talk about sex

When I was pregnant I wrote a post about finding out the gender of our child. Hilariously, (because that is how I roll) the title was somewhat ambiguous - implying that I was going to write about my sex life. Several people commented expressing disappointment that the post wasn't a full-blown exposé of my bedroom habits.

Perverts.

I didn't write about my pregnancy sex life for three very good reasons:
a) "Zilch" isn't much of a post. (Remember I had terrible morning sickness for the majority of my pregnancy) and I'd already written one post like this.

b) A lot of people who know me in real life read this blog - they don't want to picture the husband and I at it. You know who you are, I mean imagine having the mental image of him on top of me, we are sweating a bit, maybe a few pulsating veins ... see you don't want to think about that, do you?

c) I imagine writing about my intimate relations with my husband could potentially cause untold damage to my relationship.

So obviously I can't write about my sex life after giving birth.

Something I didn't think it'd be an issue.

Just two weeks after giving birth my midwife was keen to stress the importance of contraception. When I told her I was planning on using the coil (less as a contraceptive, because I am not convinced I need one after the difficulties of the last six and a half years, but because this is what was used to treat my womb lining so should keep any nasties at bay until I am ready to pop a frozen embryo or two back in).

The midwife positively beamed at me for my responsible attitude to family planning. But as I can't have a coil put in until at least six weeks after I give birth she cautioned that "breast-feeding isn't an effective contraception, and you can get pregnant as soon as three weeks after birth."

I countered saying that breast feeding might not be effective contraception but stitches certainly were. I couldn't imagine ever being able to have sex again.

How we laughed.

As I said earlier, I can't write about my personal experiences here.

However, six weeks and four days after giving birth hypothetically I can say that sex would be feasible. One needs to think carefully about the position.

I would imagine that the woman being on top would be the best position to enable her to be in control and ensure that if it does start to get a bit painful she can change position or speed.

Of course the slight drawback of that position is I guess that if she is breast feeding she might find that her boobs leak a bit and her partner might find his chest splattered with mother's milk. Which could cause a fit of the giggles that might detract from the romance of the situation somewhat.

Hypothetically, of course, how long do you reckon it'd take you to get back in the saddle?

Me

Right, enough of me cooing over my wee baby.

This post sits firmly within the Womb For Improvement genre of oversharing, because I am going to tell you how I am recovering from the birth. I asked a mate of mine (the one who declared after my birth post that we'd had almost identical birth stories) how long it had taken her to recover from her stitches and she couldn't remember, so I want to write this down.

I warn you this'll be graphic. You may wish to look away, I've helpfully headed the sections so read what you want.

Stitches
All things considered my birth was pretty easy. I mean it was painful but it was so quick I haven't really suffered from any post traumatic stress. I haven't forgotten the pain but I can absolutely see why people claim that women do forget.

Except.

Except for the stitches. I was sliced open from front to back to allow the forceps to grab hold of my baby and stitched up afterwards. This was on only thing that caused me significant pain after the birth.

I was in hospital for two days after giving birth. Desperate to go home and at one point the midwife said something that made made heart sink; "We want you to do a bowel movement before you go home."

Not only had I squeezed everything out in the hours prior to giving birth so I had nothing left to poo but the idea of straining against the stitches filled me with dread. Luckily the midwife who discharged me didn't ask any searching questions so I went home backed up.

I think it was day five before I did my first shit.

My NCT tutor give me one very valuable tip. She recommended folding up a hand full of toilet paper in your hand and sort of holding yourself in place from the front whilst pushing out of the back. "How long do you do this for?" asked a member of the group "Oh just for the first poo" was the response. I reckon I used the holding method for about a week and a half before I felt confident enough to push without the safety net.

I stopped taking the painkillers (only paracetamol, they didn't prescribe me anything very exciting) after about 9 days which was when I felt I could sit and walk relatively comfortably  but it was only after three weeks when I realised I was completely pain free and I could swap the enormous duvets of a sanitary pad for a more discreet liner.

Boobs
Many of my flatter chested buddies have blossomed mammarily when they start breast feeding. One even texted me in amazement as she suddenly realised that being better endowed now meant she physically had to lift her breast to wash under it - I've been lifting and wiping since I was 15. I have no doubt that my milk filled baps are larger but I think there comes a point when upsizing is less impressive so the increase in size is unremarkable.

I once read an article about Sarah Jessica Parker's role as Producer (as well as actress) in Sex and The City) - from what I could gather her main contribution was the innovative idea that her character's 'thing' would be she'd wear a bra in bed. Sounds to me like someone wanted and excuse to keep her norks under wraps even when it was artistically appropriate. I've started to adopt the same style, but for purely practical reasons. I'd heard of women whose boobs leak when they hear their baby crying, or if a feed is overdue. What I wasn't aware of before I started this breast feeding lark is that baps are obviously jealous types, so whether I bung Olive on the left or right tit for a feed the other one starts to leak in sympathy. The nightime bra is essential for holding breast pads in place and preventing the sheets from getting soaked.

Weight
I've been incredibly lucky on the weight front. I don't know if it was because I had morning sickness for all of my pregnancy, or because I missed the final growth spurt by having Olive three weeks early. But I have managed to miss out on excessive weight gain and stretchmarks. I'm back in my pre-pregnancy jeans - admittedly sporting a bit of a muffin top, but that is preferable to my maternity jeans that literally fall off me. I didn't weigh myself during my pregnancy, the only scales I had at home were those ones that somehow measure the ratio of body fat as well as weight and there was a warning not to use them if pregnant - I'm not sure if this is because the electric impulse is unsafe for the baby or just that the results are inaccurate, either way I didn't risk it. But I got weighed at the doctors 15 days after giving birth and my BMI was down to 26.2. Pre-pregnancy it generally hovered around 23 - 24 so I reckon it won't be long before I'm back within 'normal' range (18.4 - 24.9) and with breast feeding I don't even have to think about dieting to get there.

Postnatal Depression
Thankfully none.

There is always a worry, particularly with having tried for so long and so hard, to get here that when I did I would regret it. Either because of hormones or just being unable to bond for one reason or another.

I was warned that baby blues, which are distinct from full blown depression, can kick in on day three to five. Sure enough, bang on schedule on day four I woke up and just felt a surge of fear. It hit me that this was forever, that I was no longer the most important person in my own life and everything I did would have to be negotiated around what was best for Olive. I couldn't even imagine a time when I would be able to go to the loo by myself. I burst into tears at the enormity of the responsibility I had foisted upon myself. The husband gleefully diagnosed 'baby blues' and since then it has been all good.

That doesn't mean to say I've been giggling and skipping around the house 24/7. Both sisters have been treated to an early morning phonecall from me when I haven't been able to say anything for a couple of minutes as I've been in floods of tears. But this has been entirely due to lack of sleep and I think it would have been irrational not to be crying in these instances (might I also add they have responded beautifully, driving across London to come and support me).

I was also wracked with guilt and sobbing uncontrollably when I found out after 16 days Olive had still not gained her birth weight.

But day-to-day I am so very happy. She is just amazing, and even writing this I'm welling up - this time with happy tears - because she is all I hoped for.

Olive
Ok, maybe a little bit about the little one. We had a midwife appointment on Friday and not only is her jaundice gone but she has regained (and more) her birth weight which makes the constant nomming on my boobs worth it. She is hardly a fat knacker at 5lb 13oz (up from 5lb 9oz) but certainly going in the right direction!

Estimated Due Date

The 22nd of August has been a date emblazoned on my mind, and on the minds of thousands of others in the UK for months. Today is my official estimated due date. For everyone else in the country it is also the date that GCSE results come out - they haven't all been rooting for me.

As it is, rather than spending the day in labour I pottered round the house with a three-week-and-one-day-old baby. I vacillate between not quite believing she is here and feeling she has been here forever.

If I think about it rationally I can't quite work out why I am so in love with her. I'll be honest, she hasn't really exhibited much in the way of a personality, her chat is atrocious, she has yet to laugh at any of my jokes, and I seem to spend most of my time clearing up her shit. But I'm used to this - all of theses things apply to my dog as well and he is lovely too (although severely neglected of late).

My daughter (I remember the first time I referred to him indoors as my "husband" it was thrilling if a little weird, I feel the same when I talk about my daughter), my daughter's enigmatic charm hasn't just captured me. Both sets of grandparents have declared her "amazing", "gorgeous" and "wonderful". I'm not entirely sure what she has done to earn these accolades. Obviously the grandparents are completely unbiased in their assessment of my daughter, so it must be true.

I'm quite glad that she came early now, despite it meaning I wasn't as prepared as I'd hoped by the time she arrived, because I've got over the first petrifying weeks and am starting to feel more comfortable with her and I think the feeling is mutual. Certainly if other people are holding her and she starts to cry she calms down dramatically if I give her a cuddle. The cynical amongst you might mutter something about her smelling my milk and anticipating some boob-juice, I like to think she is starting to know her Mummy.

***

That bit on the end of my last post I realise now, in retrospect, could seem like a cry for attention "tell me you love me and I'll stay"! It genuinely wasn't meant like that. I am wondering what to do now.

I started this blog both to record my experiences of fertility treatments (if it came to that, which back in May 2008 I didn't know that it would) but also to connect with other people who couldn't conceive and, I hoped that sharing my experiences of treatment would help other folk know what they might have to go through and understand what treatment may entail. That is my excuse for being possibly a little too graphic at times.

Continuing to blog about Olive is a much more personal affair. I want to record her first moments for me, and eventually her. If other people want to read along that is great, if not it doesn't matter, whether I continue to blog here or start a new blog I have yet to decide.

So in short I'll be around for a while.

Disjointed thoughts on our new baby

I am entranced by our daughter. I watch her whilst she sleeps - which frankly in most circles would seem a little bit creepy. I also occasionally stroke her cheek to get a reaction - just to check she is still breathing, in much the same way I use to prod my pregnant belly to get a kick if I hadn't felt anything for a while. Turns out the fear doesn't disappear once they are born.

She is still tiny. She wears babygrows that engulf her. The labels say 0 to 3 months but she is still, in theory, five days off her due date. We hold up her clothes and can't imagine her ever fitting into them let alone growing out of them.

Everyone tells us to cherish these early days. They go too fast, we are warned. But I can't help but yearn for a time when she is more robust. When her spindly little limbs chub up At two and a half weeks she has yet to regain her birth weight. The midwives are keeping an eye on this, I am wracked with guilt about how much I should be breast feeding her.

Luckily, her output shows us she is clearly eating well. She has two nicknames depending on the contents of her nappy - Pissy Elliot or Poop Doggy Dog.

Nights vary. We've had a couple of terrible ones where she refuses to be put down and I hold her as she sleeps - petrified that I will roll on her or push her out of bed. Other nights have allowed us blocks of three hours solid sleep. Back in the day this would sound horrendous but after the sleepless nights of pregnancy three hours is blissfully refreshing.

The husband has had three days back at work, but I've yet to have a day by myself as my in-laws have been here. I was petrified at the thought of a day by myself however now after a week of house guests that fear is somewhat offset by the idea of a house to ourselves.

I've taken her out by myself once. I strapped the pram wrist band on firmly. Put on the pram brake  at every road crossing and eyed each approaching pedestrian with suspicion. It was Ok. I think I might get the hang of this.

Olive and I have a mutually favourite  position. Her snuggled on my chest. For her no doubt she can hear my heart beat and it is reminiscent of being in the womb. For me she becomes the cutest, softest, best smelling hot water bottle.

I worry about her health, her future, her size. Not her lungs though. She has a big voice for such a little lady.

Now I face the dilemma of all infertility bloggers once their first baby arrives. To continue to blog or to slip away quietly thankful to have got here, at last.

The Hands

Very shortly after giving birth, whilst the husband held our new born and I lay recovering, and with various medical staff milling around, I asked him if he thought she was his daughter.

I don't know what the staff thought.

The most natural assumption would be there was some question about who her father was. Maybe they thought that 36 weeks and six days previously I'd had a daliance with another man. Or that the husband was just a naturally suspicious type and I am an unfaithful slapper, coming to your screens on a Jeremy Kyle DNA test in the Autumn.

Of course you all know why I asked. And that I really meant does she look like OURS. With IVF there is always a little residual worry that there could have been an embryo switch.

On the plus side she is the right colour to be our offspring. Looks wise, however, I can't identify my chin, or the husband's eyes, my cheeks or the husband's nose in her tiny little features.

Her hands however tell a different story. They are disproportionally massive. Long fingers with slightly large knuckles and tapered fingers. Nothing like my titchy little mitts but she is the husband's hand twin.

They are incredibly expressive, and I've become a little obsessed with them. In the past ten days she has flicked me the Vs, the Bird, she has done some Westside gang gestures and wrung her hands like a little old lady.

 No Photos Please

 Subtly flicking me the V-sign

 Hand-wringing

Throwing some shapes

The husband is delighted and is already planning on getting her to learn the piano.

The Birth

My blood pressure was still high and the baby was, as far as anyone could tell, pretty much cooked therefore on balance the doctors decided on Tuesday 30th July that I should be induced.

Induction sounds fairly straightforward; I was told that a tampon-like thing would be put up me and then after 24 hours they would check to see whether the baby was coming. If not they might try something else - like a drip to try to get labour to start.

I've been using tampons since I was 13. Occasionally if they are put in wrong they can be a bit painful, but you just remove it bung another one in and can't feel it again. This is not the case with this induction tampon.

The midwife reminded me a little of Delores Umbridge from Harry Potter: all sweetness and light on the surface but with a core of steel. She said before inserting the "tampon", and this is a direct quote (I made the husband take a few notes during labour so I wouldn't forget what has happened and you wouldn't ... ahem ... miss out), "I'll just pop it up your frou frou now."

Frou Frou.

The next few minutes felt like being fingered by Freddy Kruger.

Tampon my arse. Sorry, my frou frou. I didn't see it but it felt more like a hard plastic biro was put up there and I could feel it from the moment it was in until it was withdrawn for me to give birth.

It was put up at 19:55 on Tuesday night.

I was told it should take a day or two to start working and they would essential leave me for 24 hours before checking anything. But I might, I was warned feel a few period-like pains earlier. This shouldn't be confused with labour.

So at 6am the next morning when I felt mild cramping I was in control. I knew what this was all about and fully expected a day of hanging out in the labour room - we'd got DVDs, some food, our books. At 07:30 I had shower. Well, no one wants to have a baby when they have greasy hair. I was in pain but I've had worse periods.

I then got strapped up to various machines - blood pressure monitor on my arm, belly bands for measuring the baby and me on my stomach.

By 09:00 I was getting fairly regular pains - not to bad but definitely with some kind of rhythm. They were being picked up on the monitor and the mid wife and doctor told me this often happened and then they'd die away again. They were still talking about this 24 hour lead time.

But they didn't die away. Instead they got stronger and stronger. At 09:45. after the night shift had changed, a different midwife figured I was in labour (albeit just 1cm dilated) and asked if I wanted my waters broken.

I am all for freedom of choice, I like to be in control but I didn't really know. However I remembered the wombmate's last bit of advice to me. "If they want to check if your waters have broken let them". Also traumatised by the induction suppository, she had initially refused to let them check - hers hadn't broken and it resulted in a longer labour than it might have been.

The midwife went to work, reprimanding me as I instinctively tried to wriggle away from the pain. It is quite counter-intuitive to remain lying on a bed, arse still, whilst what looks like a tent peg is waggled around inside you.

By this time my pain relief was being brought solely through gas and air. I hadn't realised until my NCT classes that this is a peculiarly British thing. Almost no other countries use it for pain relief in labour. It is the equivalent of a nice cup of tea and a digestive biscuit and, in my experience, about as effective a form of pain relief. The idea is that inhaling a 50:50 mix of oxygen and nitrous oxide will give you a bit of a buzz, like being slightly stoned, and whilst it might not take away the pain it will imbue the experience with a slightly other-worldly feeling enabling you to disassociate from the pain.

For a start I don't think I took it correctly - I think I took the idea that it might be like being stoned a little too literally. As a student I use to smoke a fair amount of hash. Unlike Bill Clinton I had the double inhale action down to a fine art. So whilst I was in the labour suite I was drawing in mouthfuls of gas, and then inhaling it into my lungs like it was some endless bong.

It did fuck all.

The thing it was most useful for was having something (the gas tube) to grip onto as the contractions became ever stronger.

I was asked if I wanted an epidural and I didn't need to be asked twice. I was well up for one. So the anaesthetist came in and started to prepare putting drips into my hands and warning me of a sharp scratch. By this time a sharp scratch felt like sweet relief compared to the all body pain of contractions.

She was poised to start the epidural. I kept remembering from my NCT class that it would take 40 minutes to work (subsequently I've checked and apparently it takes twenty minutes but I was focusing on the fact that this was still not going to be the instant relief I craved, so the sooner it was in the better). Then just as she was poised to administer sweet, sweet relief she was called out to an emergency. Leaving me with just the bloody gas.

By this time the contractions were getting bad - which led to a much-needed moment of light relief.

Labour wards aren't really wards, they are a series of individual rooms and doctors, midwives, kitchen staff (I had to shout "NO" to a woman who asked me if I wanted lunch at one point) and  students seem to wander in at out as they check on various women under their care.

A doctor came in with two students. She was careful to introduce them to me by name - like I gave a fuck at this point. As I got a contraction I didn't scream but would whimper and writhe with pain and pull on the gas in the vain hope it might pass. I was mid-contraction and one of the students at the end of my bed caught my attention - she was pulling some really odd faces and seemed a little unsteady. It totally distracted me and I watched with curious detachment as she collapsed to the floor.

By which time that contraction subsided and the husband and I just laughed as suddenly she became the most important person in the room with the doctor applying a damp cloth to her forehead. I'm guessing she won't choose to specialise in this particular area of medicine.

At about 12:00 I declared my urge to push. In about two hours I'd gone from the beginnings of labour to being ready to give birth. I untangled myself from the mass of wires I was strapped to and started to pace, and kneel and shake my legs and push, and push and push.

Then things become a blur. I remember being told that if the baby didn't come soon they'd have to get her out quickly. Then masses of people flooded into the room.

I was back on the bed and whisked into an operating theatre. The husband had scrubs flung at him and suddenly I was being asked, between contractions, for my consent for a spinal block. A spinal block is incredibly similar to an epidural only acts a lot quicker. Within minutes of signing my consent - I would have signed anything I was given - I was blissfully numb from the waist down.

I've heard people bemoaning the fact they've had epidurals or other serious pain medication during birth. They miss the real experience, feel disassociated from the birth. Each to their own. For me it was amazing. I could at last breath again and remember where I was and who I was. And frankly with such an unnatural conception I had no qualms about an "unnatural" birth - my priority was that this little being who had been growing in me and absorbing my thoughts for the last eight or so months was going to be OK.

And she appeared, safe and healthy, at 12:53. After some curious acting when I had to push for all I was worth without feeling any kind of sensation, this mucky, pale, yoda-like thing was thrust in my face for a quick kiss and then whisked to be checked in an incubator two meters away.

The husband, who had early on declared he was not going to cut the umbilical cord, cut the umbilical cord.

My placenta took its time coming which was - I think - responsible for the mass of stitches I now proudly and painfully sport. The husband wants credit here for not asking the doctor to add an extra stitch.

Suddenly the husband and I who have been a couple for half our lives are a three.

She is here!

I can hardly believe that I am writing this, partly because I am more exhausted than I ever remember being so am impressed I still have the capacity to make sense (maybe I don't but I'll only find that out when I read it back in a few days). But mostly because the seemingly impossible has happened:

Six and a half years after we started trying we have a daughter.

A gorgeous, tiny, wonderful little mite.

She is called Olive Frances (so narrowly escaped being called Ivy F!). She is the most beautiful baby in London/ the UK, I know, what were the chances we'd end up with the best one?!


She arrived on Wednesday (the 31st, was that Wednesday?) at 36weeks and 6 days. She was 5lb 9oz.

I want to write about the birth but that will have to wait until I have more energy, a computer, and home (I'm still in hospital just now).

In the meantime say hello to our little one (*** update seems no one can see the picture, she is real honest! Will upload as soon as I get home - still pushing hard to leave today):

Plans A to Z

My Dad is never happier than when he has plans A, B, C up to Z fully mapped out. That way him and my step mother can change their plans at will, and claim that was always the intended course of action.

In the event they went home on Sunday having extracted a solemn vow from the husband to go to my appointment with me and be a vocal advocat for senior medical opinion. They also found time to blackout line my curtains and put up yet more shelves before they left.

Between 12 and 6 on Monday I hung out in the maternal & fetal assessment unit. Blood pressure taken incalculable times (well, maybe 6). Blood extracted, urine tested, baby's heart monitored, her growth scanned, placenta blood flow assessed.

The little one passed all her tests swimmingly. Me not so much. Which is why I am currently tapping this post out on my iPhone again at two in the morning, in a hospital bed, having been thoroughly wakened by more blood pressure tests (3 in a row this time whilst the nurse tried to get a response she was happy with) and that wakefulness being supplemented by a new born wailing to my right.

The plan, much like my folks, seems to have roughly 26 variations and at the moment I am not sure which is the most likely. I will be induced (rather than a c-section) and I would be surprised if I get to the end of the week without that happening (I reach the 37 week goal on Thursday). Whether it will happen sooner or whether I'll gat a few more nights at home before D-day or I guess B(irth)-day is anyone's guess.

The odd thing is I might have a baby any day and I am still not 100% convinced this isn't a phantom pregnancy still...

Maternity leave - so far

I had great plans for my maternity leave.

It was going to go something like this:
Finish work on 19th of July confident that everything was in order and my cover would know exactly what to do in my absence. My desk would be clear and my email inbox down to about 20 emails that might be useful in the future. I'd bring in cake and say a fond farewell to colleagues.

I would then have four or five weeks to unpack the remainder of out boxes from the move, pack my hospital bag, cook for the freezer, read all those books about birthing which I seem to have accumulated. See friends. Bloom, glow and grow.

Instead is has been more like this:
Spend first half of what was supposed to be last week in work in hospital trying to send work emails from my iPhone. Spend latter half at home cursing works remote internet access whilst trying to 'rest'. Go to hospital on Friday for check up. Swing past work - pick up leaving present and try to hand-over work in about an hour whilst shredding the most sensitive of the files from people I use to manage.

I've spent my first week of maternity leave still trying to finish off work from home in-between fending off over protective relatives who keep trying to send me to bed.

This weekend Dad and Step-Mother arrive - complete with blood pressure monitor. Most of the weekend has been whiled away watching them unpack boxes, put up shelves and even paint a wall (I'll be honest I quite enjoy being told that I am not to allowed to do any of those activities) and been mildly rebuked for not having packed my hospital bag, started on the nursery.

My hospital bag is now packed. The nursery is getting there - at least the moses basket is up and new born clothes identified.

The problem with having a blood pressure monitor at home is my blood pressure is being monitored by my Step-mother, a retired nurse.

She isn't happy.

On Friday the hospital checked it and it was still high so my drugs were increased and I was sent home until Monday.

This weekend my pressure has been vacillating between high and very high.

My Step-Mother has now changed her plans to stay until Monday and come to the hospital with me on Monday and demand ... well, I'm not sure what.

I'll be 37 weeks pregnant on Thursday. I think my Step-mother wants the baby whipped out on Thursday.

I'm beyond caring about this pregnancy.

All I want is the healthiest, safest outcome for the baby. If that is a c-section at 37 weeks or a water birth at 40 weeks I don't care. I just hope she is well, and happy.

God, knows when I'll get the opportunity to stock up my freezer!

Some Observations On Hospital

It really isn't as bad as I thought it would be.

I am on a ward mainly with women who have just given birth and their babies. But it is oddly quiet, the babies seem very obliging only crying for short periods.

We all have our curtains drawn - round a surprisingly spacious bed area. So my neighbours are nothing but voices, however I do have very vivid mental pictures of them.

To my left is a woman who has just had her sixth - SIXTH! - baby. She gave her date of birth, she is 31. I can't compute how anyone can fit that many babies in such a comparatively short life. She seems totally unphased - as you'd expect.

Opposite, at about 8 am yesterday, the lady started complaining about back pains. Within ten minutes she was screaming and in obvious considerable pain. I heard her tell the doctor this was her first baby, but second pregnancy, the first had been still born at 21 weeks. I sat on my my bed and cried, listening to her.

She came back at 4pm, baby delivered in 45 minutes at 27 (I made a typo before when I said 21 weeks here) weeks, small, but everyone seems happy. Twice I got up to say something to her, but my British reserve sent me back to bed without a word and I've just continued my eavesdropping*.

I have only ever been three places where orange juice is considered a viable starter: 1) The 1970s 2) Formal dinner at Cambridge University 3) Hospital.

The NHS is being slated in the national press at the moment. For lack of care, empathy, poor hygiene. I have experienced the absolute opposite - there has been a fair amount of waiting around - but frankly as a low emergency case I can wait. Everyone I have seen has been lovely, patient, explained everything. I suppose I am saying GO NHS, YOU ROCK!

Saying that, it is pretty boring in here (as two posts in two days signify) so I am very much hoping they let me out today. Forgot to mention yesterday and can't work out how to edit my post on phone - I am now 34 weeks and 6 days pregnant. Ideally they want to wait until I am 37 weeks before they intervene, which as things stand looks quite doable, hopefully I'll go to term - but they have already said they don't want me to go over 40 weeks.

**UPDATE**

I am now out of hospital - hooray!  As I left I went past the cubical with the Mum who had the 27 week baby and gave her some of my old magazines. They are really pleased with how the baby is doing and the prognosis is good. She's had a rough ride to get here but is in really good spirits and the staff are doing everything for her and her daughter. She even apologised for making so much noise when in labour! (I told her that was a ridiculous thing to say.)

I bottled it

Another little British saying for you guys.

To "bottle it" can either mean literally put something in a bottle, or to change your mind at the last minute and, usually out of fear, not pursue a course of action.

I've done both.

I've bottled my piss - surprisingly only one of the vast containers was needed. But I also decided not to go into work today. This is the first sick day I've taken in over a year and frankly I think I deserve it!

The idea of scurringy off to the bathroom with a bag full of my urine collecting accoutrements was unpleasant enough but knowing that I want to have as low a blood pressure for my appointment yesterday afternoon as possible I figured a day off, doing sod all, was in order.

Then things turned a bit unexpected.

I turned up at five pm, blood pressure still too high. Was sent for blood tests, waited an hour and a half -which can't have done wonders for the pressure. Had test at 7pm. Then a quick trip to the assessment unit for, I thought, another hour on the blood pressure machine after which I'd bed sent home.

I packed the husband off home to walk the dog and get some food ready and got hooked up.

Blood pressure was still high so the midwife decided I needed to see the doctor, by which time it was 7:30 and I was bang in shift change territory.

Eventually I was seen by a Doctor and there was much debate about what was to be done. Weighing up between sending me home or keeping me I overnight. In the end I think they bottled it and kept me in as a precautionary measure.

I'm still here at 3:30pm the following day.

The good news is they've given me pills and my blood pressure is back in normal range. But I am showing decimate signs of preeclampsia - nothing too worrying yet. A scan this morning showed the baby is still getting the blood and oxygen she needs from me.

They've started me on steroids to help the baby's lungs should they decide to deliver early. And they've bunged me on fragmin, a blood thinner as it looks like I'll be spending a lot of time on my arse for the next few weeks. As I started my IVF on these drugs it almost feels like I've come full circle!

Generally though I feel safe, well cared for, and pretty healthy. Hopefully I'll be discharged tomorrow and this will just be a little blip - albeit one that requires a bit more monitoring than originally intended.

(Believe it or not I do usually proof read these but doing this on my tiny phone is doing my head in - so forgive the typos.)

Piece of Piss

For those of you who aren't familiar with our British sayings "piece of piss" is a phrase used to denote that something is, or was, easy.

"How was the exam?"
"Piece of piss"

"Can you work out how to set up this DVD player?"
"Of course, it is a piece of piss."

I mean, we don't necessarily use it in polite company but it is a common enough phrase.

One that I use albeit not one I can necessarily relate to, on account of having at ferociously shy bladder.

Pregnancy has, to some extent, lessened my shy bladder. The first symptom I noticed when I was pregnant was the need to wee more frequently - this because of hormones racing round my body. Now, at 8 months pregnant the urge to piss is enhanced by my daughter tap dancing on my bladder.

I've done it again, haven't I? Banged on about something without explaining why.

To date this pregnancy has gone brilliantly. The sickness has been grim, and still raises its head (or causes me to to raise my breakfast) once or twice a week but it hasn't affected my health or the health of my baby.

I've passed every medical check without a problem.

Until Thursday.

On Thursday I had the day off work. In the morning I was waiting in for our internet and TV to be connected. Blessed, blessed, internet - how I have missed ye. This was the company's second attempt and they had been the cause of a number of frustrated phone calls over the last three weeks. They were due to come between 8am and 1pm and I'd rung to explain I had a Doctor's appointment at 2pm so they had to be finished by 1pm.

I won't go through the stress of the morning which had the installers turn up, go away, phone calls to call centres, the manager coming down, but eventually at 1pm they started the installation. At 1:30 I had to herd them out of the house to rush across London to my Doctor's appointment. (Internet and TV sorted, phone still to come).

I raced to the train station, hopped on train, then tube, fled up the escalator, took the stairs in the hospital two at a time and then had my blood pressure measured.

It was phenomenally high.

Then my urine was tested and showed protein.

Two classic signs of pre-eclampsia.

I got hooked up to a blood pressure machine for an hour and they took yet more readings. It had reduced a bit but is still deemed too high. I suspect the rise was a result of my morning dealing with installation numpties but the hospital cannot be too careful.

So now I need more tests. One of which involves collecting my urine over a 24 hour period.

There is a heatwave going on in London at the moment which means I am drinking like a fish and pissing like a horse (two more idioms for you there). Never fear I am only drinking water so I'm not getting as pissed as a newt (one more there).

So the idea of collecting my wee for 24 hours is, frankly, intimidating. I start as of now and will be collecting every drop. There is going to be a lot and I've been given these:

Hmm. Not really sure how I am going to feel about lugging these into work tomorrow and trying to discreetly fill them whilst going to the toilet.

Still, at least I have a pot to piss in. (Another idiom there, if I didn't have a pot to piss in it would imply I had no money, which makes absolutely no sense in this context but I couldn't resist throwing it in!)

Happy Average

My internet silence should not be interpreted as a sign of bad news - rather moving into the new house and being devoid of Internet access. Three weeks now and I miss it more than is healthy. Which means this post tapped out laboriously on my phone shall be short, but sweet.

Sweet because yesterday, at our 33 week scan, I saw a little stubby nose, and a wee girl sucking her fingers.

The little one measured bang on average for everything. Size, weight (currently measured at 4 pounds 13oz), and, blood flow through heart and brain.

Her head is down ready for birth, and my placenta has shifted up to the top, allowing her unfettered access to the exit and taking away the need for a planned Caesarian - which was mooted at the 20 week scan.

I have never before been so pleased to hear that something I have created - albeit with a touch of help - is average. Of course once she is out (and one of the views left us in no doubt she is a she) I shall be aiming for an outstanding baby, exceptional toddler and amazing teenager. But for now average is perfect. 

The Most Expensive Birthday Present Ever?

The husband and I aren’t overly extravagant when it come to presents for each other. We buy gifts for Christmas and Birthdays. The husband will occasionally announce he has bought me a gift, and it will be chocolate – cheap chocolate. Which is very gratefully received but not exactly pushing the boat out.

We don't do presents for Valentines, anniversaries, Easter, New Year, St Patricks day and obviously not Mother's or Father's day.

When we do buy each other presents we tend not to overspend. In fact in a very unromantic but relentlessly practical way we agree a budget before hand so that neither of us over-spends on gifts for the other. Both of our birthdays are in the summer, and unsurprisingly both of us celebrate Christmas towards the end of December which means we have a nice six/ seven month spread between present giving.

This summer (yes it is finally summer in the UK) we realised that we were likely to be at the pinnacle of our respective wealths. This is the last gift giving occasion when we are DINKYs (Double Income No Kids Yet (yet, yet, yet, yet - how I love the transition from DINK to DINKY)). We also don’t have IVF to pay/ save for - been there done that, bought the embryo, and we sold our flat in December and are renting so are mortgage free.

So we agreed to double our gift budget.

It has been quite fun. I’ve bought the husband something that he actively wants (asked for) and supplemented it with gifts that he’d like but not quite get round to buying for himself - including a dram of his favourite whisky (the bottle would have pushed me over our budget alone), a DVD of 'Allo 'Allo (in his opinion the best sitcom ever made ... discuss). Nothing too extravagant even doubling the budget doesn’t come close to what I know some people spend on their partners but I was pretty happy with the quantity and quality of the presents.

You may have noticed the ‘was’. Unfortunately my gifts were eclipsed.

On Friday, on the husband’s 37th birthday, we completed on buying a house. After six months of renting, masses of properties viewed, seven offers put in, three accepted and then the sellers changed their mind, we became home owners again. Approximately two months before Doug makes and appearance – which is a massive relief.

But back to the completion date coinciding with the husband’s birthday.

I would like to make it absolutely clear here, in front of witnesses, that despite what he may claim (and what one friend texted him and another emailed him to say): THIS DOES NOT MEAN THAT THE HOUSE IS HIS BIRTHDAY PRESENT.

Good, glad I got that cleared up.

Media: the other side of the coin

While there may be reasons why the media isn't telling us things, it is as well to ponder about the other side of the coin - why it is telling us the things it does. And leaping into that category is the news about "Bopris" (as the Mail happily misspells him in one of its captions) fathering a previously secret "love child" (aka bastard).

What is interesting about this piece of news is the extent to which Mr Johnson sought to conceal it, and the effort which the Mail sought to publish it, defending a case in the High Court and then fighting a case in the Appeal Court.

In this latter case, the findings of Master of the Rolls Lord Justice Dyson are pretty damning, the judge effectively ruling that the public has a right to know about Boris Johnson's philandering past, which takes precedence in this instance when "weighed in the balance against the child's expectation of privacy".

The disclosure, however, is more that just a news story. From last year when Mr Johnson was the darling of the media and being widely slated as the next Conservative prime minister, possibly deposing the incumbent, this amounts to a signal that his bid for the leadership is over.

Even the Telegraph Media Group Ltd, which must have been aware of its employee's behaviour, but so far kept silent, has been forced to out its employee.

And, with the outing, it may well be that Mr Johnson's utility as an over-paid columnist is numbered. Certainly, to some of the business's customers, his attraction will be reduced and – as anIndependent poll indicates – to a measurable extent.

But what is also very interesting is Mr Johnson suddenly became so popular – especially as this is a man with few demonstrable leadership skills who handled the August riots badly, and who has none of the political experience that would be required of a prime ministerial candidate. Not only is he not, currently, an MP. He has no ministerial much less cabinet experience.

One suspects here that Johnson found so much favour with the media for the same reason that Mr Farage is so much in vogue – he was a useful stick with which to beat David Cameron. And, if that is the case, now that Mr Farage has so willingly stepped up to the plate, the London Mayor is redundant.

There, possibly, is the real agenda behind today's news. For you, Meester Johnson, ze varr ees over. And you read it first in the Daily Mail.

COMMENT THREAD

Media: you read what you are allowed to read

One of our number remarked recently on the absence of any mention of Article 50 from the broad sweep of the legacy media. A quick search proved that to be the case.

Autonomous Mind coincidentally notes the role of Article 50 as an antidote to FUD, the latter from the Goldman Sachs stable. Its report author was careful to avoid any reference to the potential of the Article to enable an equitable settlement to be negotiated, in circumstances which must be deliberate. 

One wonders, though, whether the general absence of comment in the media represents active censorship, which is turn invites dark thoughts of conspiracy between media bosses. 

Before these thoughts are dismissed outright, the emergence of yesterday's piece from Booker provides more than adequate testimony that pieces which contradict the editorial line do get spiked. Active censorship is a fact of life in the media, and everything you read is filtered through the system of editorial approval. 

So it was in the early days of UKIP in the European Parliament, where we found that stories submitted by journalists which mentioned UKIP were edited, and any reference to the party was removed. 

As a result, self-censorship took over. Not uncommonly, journalists would remove quotes attributed to Farage or one other of our MEPs, and similar quotes substituted, bearing the names of Tory MEPs. Daniel Hannan, himself a Tory MEP and then a leader writer for the Telegraph Media Group Ltd, was particularly prone to this, something for which I have never really forgiven him. 

This does remind us though that the current wave of publicity afforded to Farage and his party is neither accidental nor spontaneous. He gets publicity at the pleasure of the media barons - because they permit it. The moment that permission is withdrawn, Farage will disappear into the obscurity from which he emerged. 

That further raises the question as to why Farage is getting such a volume of (largely) favourable publicity, especially as the corporate businesses that run the major newspapers do not share his values or objectives. With the possible exception of the Express none want to withdraw from the EU. Given the opportunity, all will support any renegotiation concluded by Mr Cameron or his successor, no matter how weak it might be. 

An obvious conclusion to draw from this is that Farage, and thereby his members, are being used. Senior Tory members are convinced that he is a convenient stick with which to beat Mr Cameron, who has – for several and different reasons – fallen out of favour with the media barons and their corporate interests. 

Should Cameron at some time rebuild his bridges, or a more acceptable replacement be put in place, Farage will be ditched, leaving UKIP members in the wilderness. At the moment, journalists are being allowed to play, but the moment business gets serious – round about general election time – the teachers will rap the table, and the children will be brought back into line. 

That gives the clue to the treatment of Article 50. On the face of it, invoking the Article, seeking EFTA/EEA membership, and repatriating the acquis offers a sensible, temperate solution to withdrawing from the EU. It minimises any collateral damage and allows trade to continue uninterrupted, without loss. 

And that, of course, is the last thing that the corporates - which include the media interests -actually want. They do not want a solution to the problem, otherwise people might agitate for it, and we could end up actually confronting a successful withdrawal. Thus, they will publicise Farage, under license, but not Article 50. 

Through this dynamic we get the surreal situation where the self-appointed "expert" from Open Europe manages to write a long piece about leaving the EU, without mentioning Article 50 once. It is raised only in the comments by a reader.

The point to emerge from all this is the reminder that we are very far from enjoying a free press in this country. Anything of political significance that you are able to read in the print media is there only because someone decided you should be allowed to read it. 

There may be exceptions, but these only go to prove the rule. A few licensed dissidents – such as Booker - are allowed. They are treated with benign amusement, and kept on because they have high page traffic. But they are kept firmly in the "ghetto" and not allowed to play with the rest of the girls and boys. 

Sadly, though, people – the dwindling band that continue to read newspapers and believe what they say – actually believe that they are well-informed after they have expended so much of their life-energy reading the tat they are permitted to see. 

But they should never forget that most censorship comes not from governments but from the media itself. They have the power to dictate the agendas and they are not at all reticent in using that power. You read only what you are allowed to read. 

COMMENT THREAD

EU referendum: a common vision

The first thing you need to know about Goldman Sachs, it says here, is that it's everywhere. The world's most powerful investment bank is a great vampire squid wrapped around the face of humanity, relentlessly jamming its blood funnel into anything that smells like money.

That was written a while ago, but it may give some hint to the fact that this blood-sucking parasite it not universally adored. And it may, therefore, be a mixed blessing for the europhiles to have it reporting that a British departure from the EU would result in a "loss/loss scenario" in which both the UK and the rest of the bloc would be damaged. 

The report is from Kevin Daly, a member of the investment bank's economic team, and it says that a UK exit would "come with a significant economic cost to the UK" because it is "highly integrated" with the EU. 

Crucially, Daly then dismisses those who argue that Britain could negotiate a trade deal with the EU once it had left. "Given the size and importance of the UK economy, it is unlikely that the UK could negotiate the same access to the EU single market that Switzerland and Norway have achieved", he says. 

Now, that Mr Daly so carefully refers to Britain negotiating a trade deal with the EU "once it had left" cannot be an accident. It must be done for effect, especially as Article 50 refers to negotiationsbefore a withdrawing country leaves. 

Assuming that the default position of any responsible government would be to invoke Article 50, Goldman Sachs is therefore engineering a scenario which is both extreme and highly pessimistic - and not provided for in the Treaty. And, without it offering a range of scenarios, this can only mean that the bank is talking a partisan and therefore worthless line. 

The thing is, of course, is that the UK could opt for membership of the EEA via EFTA, and for repatriating the entire aquis. This may not be acceptable to the "unilat" fundamentalists of UKIP, who are singing from the same songsheet as Goldman Sachs, but it is a tenable option and one espoused by at least one British cabinet minister. 

But then, Goldman Sachs could not possibly consider this scenario if it is to stand up its headline finding that the UK leaving the EU would be a "loss/loss scenario". And, for a company that works hand in glove with the European Commission, this is the only conclusion that its employees would be permitted to draw. 

It was, after all, Goldman Sachs alumni, Mario Monti who took over the governance of Italy at the behest of the Commission, it was Goldman Sachs who cooked the accounts to allow Greece to join the euro, and it was then Goldman Sachs people who engineered the Greek "bailout" and the haircuts which tipped the country into the depression. 

That such an eminently untrustworthy organisation thus reports adversely on the UK exiting from the EU is, therefore, no bad thing. But how fascinating it is that both Goldman Sachs and the UKIP fundamentalists share a common vision of how the UK will manage its departure. 

COMMENT THREAD

Media: Booker uncensored

As the pages of the Telegraph and the Mail are swamped with pieces about the ongoing crisis at the heart of the Tory Party, the ever widening rift between David Cameron and his grass roots, it may be germane to recall a curious episode back in December 2006, a year after Cameron became the Tory leader. 

On the Friday of that week, as usual, Christopher Booker submitted his column for the Sunday Telegraph, including a lengthy item analysing why it was already clear that what he called "the greatest gamble in modern British politics" had not come off. 

This was Mr Cameron's attempt to turn the Tories into a "Not The Conservative Party", contradicting pretty well every principle the Tory grass roots believed in. 

On the Saturday afternoon, just when the paper was due to go to press, he received an incandescent call from his then-editor, Patience Wheatcroft. There was no way she could allow such a piece to appear in her paper. That week's Booker column would have to appear in absurdly truncated form. 

This little incident briefly caused a flutter of interest behind the journalistic scenes, prompting some mischievous observer to post entries for Wheatcroft and Booker on Wikipedia, describing what had happened, But these before long disappeared, Ms Wheatcroft herself did not last much longer as editor, her successors never censored Booker in such a way again, and history rolled on. 

Six and a half years later, however, as the rift between Cameron and the Tory grass roots, contemptuously dismissed by his party chairman as "mad, swivel-eyed loons", makes front-page headlines - with Nigel Farage taking out a full-page advertisement in the Daily Telegraph inviting disaffected Tories to come over to UKIP en masse - those words which Telegraph readers were never allowed to see now seem even more apt than they might have done at the time, 

This was what Booker wrote:

David Cameron ends his first year as leader of the Opposition, there are clear signs that the greatest gamble in modern British politics has not come off. The little group of ex-public schoolboys who last year hi-jacked the Conservative Party have seemed to gamble on just one strategy. List everything the Party used to stand for – low taxes, the family, rolling back the power of the state, encouraging business, upholding our defences, curbing criminals, common sense – then go for the opposite.

The essence of the gamble has been the belief that, in wooing the support of Lib Dems, would-be greenies, Guardian readers and the supposed "soft centre", they could take their supposed "core" supporters for granted. But as support for Cameron falters, all the evidence seems to suggest that those wished-for new recruits to his "Not The Conservative Party" are not forthcoming, while the Party's former natural supporters are left baffled, dismayed and increasingly angry.

All this was neatly symbolised by the recent photo-opportunities staged by the three men now competing for the role of Britain's prime minister. Mr Blair and Mr Brown, aware that defence and national security (not long ago rating 34 percent on a Mori poll) still rank very much higher as voter priorities than "environmental" issues (only eight percent), flew out to the Iraq and Afghan battle-zones to pose in front of the largest guns they could find. Mr Cameron, at the same time, flew out to the Sudan, in Lord Ashcroft's CO2 emitting private jet, to be pictured cuddling a little refugee child. It was the "Men from Mars" against "the Boy from Venus". "Darfur Dave" did not come well out of the contrast.

The tragedy is that, confronted by the most corrupt, hypocritical, inefficient, illiberal, discredited government in history, what millions of voters are looking for is an alternative which might put an end to the sleazy, self-regarding sham of the Blair era by displaying some "masculine" firmness: in cutting back on the bloated public sector and the out-of-control bureaucracy which is destroying our health service, education and police; which might encourage enterprise; which might restore democracy to local government; bring back some balance into our public finances; sort out the shambles into which our Armed Forces are sliding; uphold Britain's national interest, as we suffocate under the malfunctioning system of government represented by the European Union.

In other words, what much of the country is crying out for is a party which represents precisely those values which Mr Cameron's Not-The-Conservative Party seems so hellbent on abandoning. As for what he stands for instead, almost the only clear message Darfur Dave seems to have put over to the voters is his sentimental "save the planet" greenery, on which his dotty little gimmicks and practical ignorance have simply made him a laughing stock.

What many voters sadly begin to conclude is that Dave and his cronies seem so hopelessly ill-equipped to take on the serious business of government that, if we have to choose between one gang of PR merchants and another, better stick with the devil we know. Hence the evidence of the latest polls appearing to show that the gamble has failed. Ever larger become the number of would-be Conservatives sorely tempted to join that 40 percent who already feel so alienated from politics that they just stay sullenly at home. But the Guardian readers are scarcely flocking to replace them. So where does all this leave our country?

And that was more than six years ago. Even more so now than then, we are asking the same question. As the Conservatives go into complete meltdown, where does all this leave our country? 

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