I’m a human boomerang.
Born in the South East of England, I worked in London for ten years as a journalist and had a little bit of money saved which could have gone on a house deposit or a year in Australia. For reasons I may never go into, I chose the latter, buggered off and had four glorious, ridiculous years in Sydney before waking up on new year’s day aged 33 with crepey cleavage and a sudden and fierce urge to return to London to find myself a man.* Two years later, job done, my man and I moved back to Sydney for 18 months where we became parents to BUB.1 and I became an Australian citizen. On arriving back in London I fell pregnant again with BUB.2, and six months later moved to Hertfordshire, just north of London, to have him. Not one to sit still, eighteen months later we moved again, back to the village where I grew up. Still close enough to London to be dignified (and to work), and close enough to my parents to allow me to get a haircut or eat an occasional meal sitting down. BUB.3 came along and ruined any chance of that. But, she is the light of my life.
I chose the latter, buggered off and had four glorious, ridiculous years in Sydney before waking up on new year’s day aged 33 with crepey cleavage
So how did Disco start? The fact is, having a baby struck me dumb. Not a very promising preamble to a blog, is it? As a writer, the most I had been able to muster were Facebook status updates indicating whether I’d managed to cook something tasty. Or cut myself badly on a household object. Life as a single woman, on the other hand, was full of narrative. I could often been seen nodding knowingly to the lyrics of songs, and ruminating on the hows, whats and whys of every single sodding thing that happened to me. Having a child spins the narrative way off centre and I thought a blog might help me hoist it back onto to a more sensical path, to help me work out what the hell was happening.
If one is endlessly trying to find the right words to describe the smell of the back of their neck or the aching loss of one’s time, can one truly be sure baby won’t topple headlong into the fireplace or grow up to become a sociopath?
On giving birth, I expected to sit back and be able to contemplate the enormity of it all, the wonder, and perhaps put it to words…but no. Perhaps it’s some sort of evolutionary survival mechanism to ensure baby thrives – if one is endlessly trying to find the right words to describe the smell of the back of their neck or the aching loss of one’s time, can one truly be sure baby won’t topple headlong into the fireplace or grow up to become a sociopath? I wondered if I was still a little mute, hence the decision to start a blog to see if words cometh. And if they did, hopefully not too many of them would be words like “cometh”.
So discomBUBulated. A play on words. A place to write. I might write about cutting myself on household objects (not intentionally. Things are never that bad). Or I might just write about the range of things that discombobulate me, which is far and wide, or the things that just make sense. Like cheese.
*Sydney had a lot of eye candy but none of Willy Wonka’s everlasting kind for me. For the purposes of this blog, and with utmost respect, I shall herein refer to my man as Willy or WW.