Death is not a Hollywood movie

My dad didn’t go into hospital to die, but he was dying. I just wasn’t prepared to admit it. He’d been dying slowly for 20 years, but the last 6 months of his life he was slipping away and I didn’t see it.

My dad was 6ft 6. People called him the gentle giant and he was. His heart was the biggest thing about him, how much he really cared for people and for animals. He wasn’t overly sociable, but when he let people into his life he really cared for them.

He was full of laughter, he was full of light and he was full of love. Every time it snowed, he would take me to the nearest hill and we’d go sledging, he even made me my own sledge. We had goofy names for each other, he was bootface to me. We woud make fools of one another in the supermarket. He was my dad, he was my friend, he was my confident.

While we talked almost every week, and we had open views about many things, including euthanasia, or dignity in death. He couldn’t understand how he could take a very much loved dog to the vet and have it put to sleep when its suffering got too much, but he didn’t have that choice. He wanted that choice and felt it wrong that he didn’t.

DVT was a 20 year death sentence

The decline in my dad’s health started twenty years ago, when he was diagnosed with deep vein thrombosis (DVT) in his right leg. He was about 50 when it happened, and he’d been a coach driver for a number of years. We never spoke about it, until his last 6 months, but he’d also had a pulmonary embolism and almost died then. I was 16 and my mother wouldn’t let me visit him in hospital. He was there, then he wasn’t, then he was home and never went back to work.

In the years that followed, I left home and moved away, unable to stay around a mother who was pure evil. My parents separated not long after and I found that my mother was physically abusing my dad. She was a violent alcoholic who did her best to destroy lives as a hobby. After finding out what she’d done, I encouraged him to divorce her.

Life as a single man in his mid-50s my dad found himself living in council run sheltered housing, in a flat that should have been condemned. Regardless of how horrible his home was for him, he built up a life with the community that lived around him. He always felt he was too young to be in what was a retirement community, perhaps he was right.

All of those things changed in 2011, when the local authority sold all the flats and the land they were on to a social housing developer. All the residents were to be scattered across the town to whatever suitable home became available. It took some time to find my dad a flat, but when they did he was turfed from his home.

You read stories about how elderly people being forced to move is a death sentence. Until it happens to your loved one you really don’t appreciate how true that is. I thought the new flat would be good for him, it was bigger, brighter and warmer. He just didn’t tell me how much that little community meant to him until after he had moved.

It took less than a year for that move to start killing him. In his isolation and loneliness my dad started drinking more heavily than he had previously. He always liked a drink, but knowing the damage my mother had caused he was always kept a step or two away from alcoholism.

After he moved, I made the trip to see him once a month, until I was diagnosed with an illness that led to surgery and meant I couldn’t drive for a number of months. I didn’t see my dad for about 8 months and when I did I thought he had cancer. He was so thin.

The beginning of the end

The day before my dad turned 71, he told me he’d been to see his GP who had taken one look at him and told him he was being admitted to hospital. I could hear the sadness in my dad’s voice when he phoned me to tell me. My dad had a love / hate relationship with hospital, he didn’t want to be there, yet at the same time he loved being doted on by the nurses. Perhaps looking back he knew he was sick and just wanted to be left alone to die as he wished.

I’d already planned on going to see my dad on his birthday. I’d had a birthday cake made for him, it was a crossword puzzle because he loved to do them every day. When I arrived at the hospital I found he’d been moved to the high dependency unit. At the time I really didn’t give too much thought to how sick he might be. With all the urgency of being moved, the doctors couldn’t tell me much about his condition or what had landed him there in the first place. A problem with his stomach they said, different to what had happened before.

The time he was admitted to I was half way through working my notice period at work.  I was sort of heady with the redolence that the prospect of a new job.  One that I really thought I deserved.  I was sort of lost in my own world for a bit, hopeful that things were going right for me for a change.  I realise the selfishness of it was stupid.  Now, I try not to feel the guilt, I should have had my eyes more firmly on my dad, and that he was dying.  Only I didn’t realise he was dying.  There had been so many false alarms and this time it would be no different.  I was wrong.

This was the first of four admissions up until his death, in a five month period.  The first, he was in for about five weeks.  The doctors wouldn’t tell me anything when I phoned, I knew my dad wasn’t telling me things.  I didn’t know if it was the doctors not telling him or him protecting me, but I couldn’t get any information out of people so it made it incredibly hard to find out anything.

The doctors wouldn’t tell me anything because two Australian DJs had fooled the nurse looking after a princess.  They actually told me that.  I yelled, I begged, I pleaded but nobody would tell me anything, ‘you need to come and see him in person, then we’ll tell you’.  On a daily basis I found myself explaining where I lived (90 minutes away), and that I was working my notice period, I couldn’t get time off and the doctors weren’t there at weekends to talk to.  On a daily basis I heard their judgement in their voice.

In the end it took a letter of complaint to the Chief Executive to get someone to talk to me.  His leading consultant phoned me on an almost daily basis after that.  It took two weeks to get someone to talk to me.  At the same time I wasn’t getting a very clear picture.

The most I could understand was that there was a blockage in his stomach and food was unable to get to his bowel. He was starving to death. They couldn’t get a nasogastric tube down so they were giving him nutrition through an intravenous drip. Something that was making my dad feel very unwell.

I spoke to my dad as much as I could while he was in hospital. I remember a Friday night not long before he was discharged phoning me in tears telling me that the doctors had told him that unless he started to stabilise they said he was going to die. That night there was a huge electrical storm, I sat and watched the lightening, crying, because my dad had taught me not to be afraid of the thunder and lightening, that it was just ‘angels playing skittles’, it seemed poetic in some kind of strange way.

I went to see my dad on the Sunday, I found him in a truly awful state. Hardly clothed sitting in a brand new hospital room with no TV and nothing to keep him entertained. He was incoherent and falling apart. It was all I could do not to cry in front of him. I had to leave the room.

Speaking to the nurse on duty, I complained about the state my dad was in, he’d wet himself and had been sitting in it for I don’t know how long, because as he put it ‘I’m tethered to the bed, I can’t get up’. I explained as best I could to the nurse that I was in the middle of changing jobs, so getting down to see my dad over 90 minutes away wasn’t something I could do on a daily or even weekly basis. I couldn’t afford it. The nurse said ‘why haven’t they offered to put a password on his medical files so they can verify it’s you?’ Why indeed.

After talking to the duty doctor and being told that they thought my dad had pancreatitis, they were stabilising him, then they would operate to put gastric bypass in place so they could get nutrients into his stomach.

A week later, without explanation my dad called to say he was at home. I still don’t know why they didn’t do the surgery. The practice nurse who had cared for him for almost as long as he’d been ill got him on the vulnerable adults register, but the hospital still discharged him (we knew he would be readmitted).

He was home two and a half days, then he was readmitted for two weeks.

He was sent home again. This time he seemed to be slightly better, he lasted through to most of July & August. In the early hours of a Saturday in mid-August he collapsed at home, he pulled the emergency chord in his warden controlled flat and ended up back in hospital. He was vomiting blood.

I raced to see him, a feat of impossibility on a Saturday in August on the M5. I managed to spend 90 minutes with him before I had to turn around and come home. He was white. He could barely speak. He was vomiting blood and all the time he was apologising to me, he didn’t want me to see him in that state.  He was ashamed I think.  He knew, that I knew he was drinking and it was causing his slow death.

I though this time would be the last however. The young doctor who was caring for him was happy to talk to me (having spotted the earlier instigated password), called me constantly to let me know what was happening. They finally seemed to get the pancreatitis under control.

He came home at the end of August and I went to see him. He’d put on some weight. He had a bit of a sparkle back in his eyes. I brought him food and a new laptop so he could communicate with people. I made him lunch and spent a few hours with him just talking about things like we used to. He seemed happier.

It didn’t last.

The final days

Early in October he went to see his consultant at the hospital who said he was to be admitted again, he couldn’t stand on his own two feet.

For various reasons I couldn’t get to see him for the first two weekends he was admitted. He’d also told me long ago I wasn’t allowed to give up my life and keep dropping everything to see him. We made a plan, I had a weeks holiday booked, the first week of November. I was going to come down on the Wednesday and we would talk to his consultant together to work out what they would do.

I spoke to him on the Saturday before he died, I’d been out for a business meal on the Thursday night so couldn’t talk to him then too tired on the Friday. He’d said they couldn’t get the nasogastric tube down so they were going to try IV nutrition again. He was starving, he told me he was absolutely starving but wasn’t allowed to eat anything.

I tried to speak to him on the Tuesday, but when I finally got through to him, he told me he was at home. Then he wasn’t at home. I accused him of drinking. He said he was tired. He was slurring his words. He made no sense. I was going to try to talk to him again on the Wednesday evening.

After talking to a friend on the phone on Wednesday, I had a shower. Checking my phone I had a voicemail from the hospital asking me to call them.

They don’t actually tell you that your loved one is dying. They don’t say the words, ‘your dad is dying’. They say ‘you need to come’ and ‘you really need to make some time to come’. The urgency to get there wasn’t conveyed. So I had a stupid conversation, because I’d been there twice already in the last six months. Was he really that sick? it was two days before payday and I had just enough money to get me to work for the next two days, but not to get to Somerset and back.

Having had the urgency pressed on me I left frantic message for my best friend who lived near my dad, surreal as it seems, I think I said ‘the hospital seem to be implying that my dad is dying’. Funny what you say in times like these. Another friend lent me some money. I did stupid things like drying my hair and sorting food out for my cats, to calm myself down before driving 70 miles.

I surprised myself at the calmness of how I got down there. Stuck to the speed limit. No crazy moves. I got there in exactly 90 minutes.

My best friend, Jo, met me at the car park and we walked through the deserted corridors of the hospital.  We joked a little bit as we walked through. Jo just knows how to calm me, like a sister she subtly does things to change the tempo.

Walking onto the ward the nurse stepped out from behind their counter and walked towards me. I was greeted with the words, ‘I’m sorry, he’s dying’.

Death is not romantic like it is in the movies. It’s brutal. There is no softly lit side room with chairs for grieving relatives. He was on the ward, with a curtain pulled around him. Remnants of his unfinished life scattered around him.

He was gasping, like a fish, a fish out of water. His head thrown back his mouth flapping open his chest heaving to grab at every last drop of air he could get. Not wanting each breath to be the last. I sat and cried. Jo and I held his hand.

At some time in the past I had read an article where someone had said that whilst their loved one was dying, they held their hand and told them that it was OK for them to go. So I did that, I held my dad’s hand and I said…

“Dad, you don’t have to hold on any more. If you want to go, you can I will be OK. Dad, ‘death is but the next great adventure’ and I think it’s time you had yours, you can let go and have that adventure”.

Seems equally silly and sad that I would quote Dumbledore to my dying dad, but whoever that person was, who said they felt they should tell their loved one that it was OK to die, thank you.

I stepped away from my dad to talk to the doctor briefly, only to be called back almost immediately. I don’t think my dad wanted me to be there when he actually died. I was though, I might not have been there all the time he was ill, but I wasn’t going to let him die without me.

He probably had two more breaths when I returned. I sat there with him for about another fifteen minutes before I let it sink in that he had really gone.

What I know now, my dad had atrial fibrillation, something I wasn’t aware of. His body so completely malnourished was unable to cope with IV nutrition as his only method of food and his heart had been gradually weakening in the few days before he died. At about 8pm on Wednesday 29th of October he suffered a cardiac arrest. They resuscitated him, but he never regained consciousness. They told him I was coming and he held out until 10:40pm when he died. In the end, his heart was too big for him, something anyone who knew him would smile and nod in agreement.

Death is not pretty.  I know the Dignity in Dying movement is currently advocating for end of life dignity for those with terminal illness.  I also know the law is different in Holland.  In Holland, I think I understand that if someone feels that they no longer have quality of life, that their life is compromised by illness, then they can also seek to die with dignity.  Had this been an option for my dad, I don’t think he would have drank himself to death.  I don’t think he would have put himself through months of pain.  I think he would have said the loneliness was too much now, and that he wanted to go.  As sad as it would have been, I would have let him go.  He would have drifted away, fallen asleep and never woken up, like his mum.  It’s how he wanted to die, and I’m sorry he didn’t get that choice.

The grief roller coaster

You think you’ve gotten through it.  You think the gut thumping heaving sobs you’ve endured long into the night have all but washed you out of any grief you’ve got left to give.  You think that going back to work and throwing yourself into it has cleared the sinuses of your despair.  You think the exhaustion you feel that wraps your body tightly will surrender you to sleep when you crawl into bed.

You think. You think. You think.

You’re wrong.

Everyone keeps asking if you’re OK.  Being stoically British you’re expected to smile and maintain that stiff upper lip, and say ‘yes’.  The problem is, you’re not OK. Only the befuddled state on their faces when you say you’re not, and their need to cheer you up stops you from being honest.  People don’t want to hear you’re not OK.

The grief has become a roller coaster.  It pulls you down into its cold cave and makes you weep, to the point where you’re doubled over in your kitchen sobbing until it robs you of breath.  Then you have days when you feel a little bit more ‘up’, then there’s a stupid advert for ‘how we do Christmas’ on Sky.  There is little else you can do but ride the roller coaster and hope that the ride comes to an end (like you know it inevitably will).

Being honest? I’m not OK.  When I do sleep my dreams are vivid and spook me when I wake up, my heart pounds and fear about everything washes over me.  I have to claw myself out of the dream only to find that when I fall asleep the dream is just paused and it continues to play like a bad horror movie (note – I don’t like horror movies).

In the last 12 months (because the anniversary is next Tuesday), I have lost the ability to have children (through no fault of my own), saw someone walk out my life I care for immensely, and I’ve lost my dad.

It’s bad enough when you have to grieve for the loss of one thing, because losing the ability to have children forces you to grieve for its loss.  But when you lose 3 things? well as someone said on Saturday he was surprised I wasn’t running naked down Marlborough high street.  I wonder this myself.

I’m nervous.  I’m filled with anxiety.  I’m exhausted.  I’m barely functioning.

I paint on a facade like an adobe render, hiding the cracks and flaws underneath.  Only it’s getting too exhausting to paint it on everyday so I’m hiding away and trying to simply function.  I’m living in PJs and hiding under blankets.

My mantra has become, ‘one foot in front of the other, and remember to breath’.

Life isn’t what it used to be, and I don’t yet know what it’s going to become.

Death and taxes

On Friday 21st of November 2014 I’ll be laying my dad to rest.  It really doesn’t quite feel like it was two and a half week since he died.  It feels like a lifetime has passed.

In the last two weeks I’ve thought so much about all the things that I wanted to say to him – not because he’s gone, but things I’d been saving up to say to him when I was supposed to see him in person.  I know they say that you remember the last conversation you have with the person who died, I do, and I wish it had been a better one.

It’s not that we argued, but because my dad had become so disorientated the conversation was confusing and distorted.  I guess I’ll remember that.

Whatever picture you have of someone dying, because of what you’ve seen in the movies, it’s wrong.  He didn’t just drift off to sleep.  He struggled for every one of his last breaths that he took.  He wasn’t conscious at the end.

The one thing my job and my latent curiosity gives me is a depth of understanding.  I knew his frontal cortex would have been firing even if he wasn’t fully there.  I know he waited for me.  I let him go.

Life has been a blur for the last two weeks.  A dizzying mix of dealing with everything and then, just full stop.  Then the tears that wash over you and the weight that presses down on your chest and you can’t breath properly.

The stupid inevitability of what was coming is lost on me somehow.  I knew it was nearer than I wanted to believe.  I still feel like I’ve somehow been robbed.

I’m also angry at myself.  For not telling my dad months ago that it was OK to admit that he’d just had enough of living.  That his life had become so sad and empty, and that he just wanted to be at peace.  So I told him at the end it was OK to go.

My dad gave me so much of who I am.  He gave me humour, and humility.  He gave me vulnerability and belief in myself.  He taught me so much that I’ll never be able to thank him for properly.  In the end however, it’s nothing without the ability to share it with someone.

Perhaps that’s what’s made me feel the worst.  That in the last year I’ve lost so much.  That I’ve done this all on my own.  On one side is the understanding that I know I can do this all on my own, and on the other? that I don’t want to do this all on my own.

Right now, there’s a big hole in my heart left by two people this year.  I wish there weren’t.


On Wednesday evening, at about 22:40 GMT my dad moved onto his next great adventure.  I hope wherever he is, he is free of pain, walking so fast that people have to trot to keep up and doing it all with a big smile.

My dad, the person who made me who I am today.  The gentle giant.  Bootface.  Completer of the Telegraph cryptic crossword on a daily basis.  Intelligent, funny and with the biggest heart.  He would do anything for anyone (if he could).

Right now I can’t really find the words to say how great he was to me.  I just know that one of the brightest lights in my life has flickered and gone.

Good night dad.  Sleep well.  You will be missed.


The other day I tweeted that a year ago I was freaking out at the prospect of major surgery, I was very single and stuck in a job that I really wasn’t enjoying (with people who made me feel miserable).  I was scared and the future didn’t look especially bright.

This year, couldn’t be further from a year ago.  A lot has changed (and some things still stay the same).

So why are things so completely different?  Changing jobs probably has a lot to do with it.  I think it’s safe to say in the last 4 months (it’s only been 4 months! feels like longer) I’ve barely stopped.

Having been asked to talk at a conference (run by the company I work for), I was sort of pushed onto a metaphorical stage with some incredibly respected peers who are known globally for what they do.  For a while I was thinking, ‘there’s all these people, then there’s me…’.

I wouldn’t say I was concerned about talking, a bit nervous as I’d never spoken in front of so many people.  I knew I could do it (any woman that goes through a hysterectomy at 36 on her own can pretty much achieve anything… I’m just sayin’).  Plausibly the problem was going to be – would anyone either understand or like my presentation.

Long story short, they did.  I always overlook any talent I’ve got, possibly because I don’t think it’s that much of a big deal, it’s part of who I am.  So I overlooked that one thing I’m really good at is taking complex ideas and explaining them in a way that others understand.  Which is what I did.  I enjoyed the experience, and I want to do it again.

Well, having attended the conference I’ve made a whole host of new friends, specifically a wonderful woman named Bern, and in an incredibly short space of time we’ve submitted a proposal for a conference in Minneapolis next April.  Which probably isn’t the big bit that excites me (weird I know).  It’s that we’re going to be doing primary research into something that I’ve pondered over for quite some time.

I’m not going to share all the details right now as we’re still planning our research.  When we’re ready to launch I’ll post more on here.

The thing that makes me feel like this is different is that last year my future was very bleak, being 36 and never being able to have children made me think that I’d never have much of a future (even though I didn’t really want children – it’s weird can’t really explain it).  To this year realising that I have a very real opportunity to give something back that may stand the chance of making a difference in people’s lives.

Light equals hope, I’ve gotten hope back.  Hope that the future is not going to bleak that I’m working with great people during the day, doing great things and that’s afforded me the luxury of making friends outside of work and exploring things that I probably would only have dreamed of.

Life takes you in all kinds of directions if you’re open to the possibilities that what is expected doesn’t have to be the path you choose.  As they say, the journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step, and I think I’ve finally started making those steps.

Links: Interact 2014 Storify (NB I’m on day 2 so a bit of a scroll)

Why tech?

Anyone who knows me, knows that I’m equal parts geek and nerd.  To those who don’t know me, they are often shocked when I start correcting them on technology information.  When you get to know me, you know I just find comfort in tech.  I don’t know why exactly, I guess I just do.

Did I start out my career thinking this is what I wanted to do?  No.  Not at all.  When I was at school, I wanted to be a fashion designer.  People find that even more hilarious – me, having a sense of fashion, again that’s often surprising but it’s a post for another day.

Then I wanted to be an interior designer.  That’s my part time passion, interiors.

I fell into my career in a rather haphazard manner.  Started out selling computers, and blagged my way into an IT support job with ICL.  From there I became a bit of an autodidact.  Only ever had 4 hours of training in 17 years, and that was my first day on the job.  Being taught how to hard code autoexec and config.sys files on windows machines.

So why exactly would I choose technology?  Perhaps I could see the difference that technology could make.  I got excited at the prospects of taking something that you always had to do by hand and using computing technology to make it better.  It’s somewhat grandiose to say it, but I believed (and I still do), that computers have got the power to save lives.

It’s rather sad that we’re still not pushing the boundaries of what they’re capable of.  In this big data revolution we still throw around words easily because they’re fashionable without considering what the meaning of them really are.  Instead of just saying things we should be doing more with them.

So it was the article on Sky News a couple of weeks ago (the link to which I can’t find which is typical), that made me smile.  A pilot scheme run in two hospitals using iPods to monitor patient vitals had saved around 300 lives.  Amazing huh?

Just think… if transforming a paper process into something digital with only a tiny bit of what’s possible, and it can save 300 lives, why on earth are we not doing more?  Technology doesn’t need to be big and expensive, it can be small and plausible.

MVP or MK3?

As mentioned previously, I’m researching for the conference I’m talking at.  This means reading, a lot (nothing new there).  What is new is my reading material.  Normally I’ll surf from one article to another rather than reading whole text books (seriously… snore).  I’ll pull little bits of information from one place or another and glue them together to come up with insights.  My brain has been called wikipedia before (along with a comment about it being a bit freakish).

So at the moment I’m reading The Lean Startup by Eric Reiss (great book, well written).  I won’t go into details about it as I suggest you read it.  However, he obviously talks about the MVP quite a bit (minimal viable product for those of you who don’t know).  My reading has also coincided with the latest Apple launch this week.

Before I go off on one, I’ve mentioned that I read a lot and I retain a hell of a lot of random bits of information in my brain.  Anyway, earlier this year, Nike canned their fuel band.  Which was a little odd, as the market for wearables is picking up a pace, they had also released two versions of their product to the market.  Very odd, as a third would mean (if they had learnt anything from Apple) was the right type of market space holder.

Anyone who knows me, knows I don’t go out and buy first generation Apple products.  Whilst the first release of an Apple product that you’re likely to see is a damn good one, it’s still in their eyes an MVP.  You can tell it from the design and that features are missing (remember the first iPhone, no 3G and no cut / copy / paste?).

So why am I rambling?  Well the speculation was rife when Nike let their team go, that they didn’t let them go very far, they handed off the team into the waiting hands of Apple.

Nike don’t build tech.  Lets be clear on that.  Whilst the fuel band is a great concept it has turned their system into a proprietary product with ‘fuel’ instead of things that we recognise (like calories0.  At the time bloggers were speculating that Apple wanted access to the social network that Nike had built (and maybe that was the case).  Then if you add in the mix of the Beats purchase for cloud music you sort of see where they’re going (although IMHO, those two products would probably be bolted together in some way – can you say cloud music for athletes?).

There are startups out there or smaller tech companies who can do it better and faster.  They can get a product to market that’s better and people will want.  It makes sense that Nike would ditch the fuel band.  The thing is, following the launch of the Watch this week (oh come on, it wasn’t a surprise to anyone), closer inspection of the sport versions look very close to the fuel band but with a bit more oomph.

So now I’m wondering, is Apple really releasing their standard MVP MK1 product, or is it for all intents and purposes Nike Fuel MK3?  If so, the product could well be more stable and better than any other product launch they’ve done to date.

They will only make it work if they can offer something unique to it (and I’m sorry, but wifi music distribution and calls from a watch are just adding things in for the sake of it and not diversifying the product).  Think outside the box Apple, don’t give us a regurgitated iPhone – give us a piece of wearable tech that has strong health benefits built into it – calories, heart rate, blood pressure, perspiration, fluid intake, pedometer – done WELL, would be a good start.

Will I jump on the bandwagon? I haven’t worn a watch in about 10 years, and even when I did, I didn’t really find them comfortable so possibly not.  For me a watch would need to provide me with some value and not be intrusive to wear.  If it can’t get over those stumbling blocks I really won’t care too much what else it can offer to me.

Talking out loud

Next month I’m going to be doing something I’ve never done before.  Well, two things, but the first is likely to be the more scary of the two.

I was asked to talk at a conference my company is running in London (link at the bottom of the page, if you’re interested in what I do, I can recommend it, the line up is amazing).  For some reason my mouth went ‘yeah OK’ before my brain had chance to go ‘are you completely bloody barking mad?’

To be clear, I’ve only worked for my company for about 3 months.  When I was asked I think I’d been there for about three weeks.  It’s not like I had a clear idea of what I was going to talk about, I just thought yeah, what the hell.

You see, I do completely bonkers things like this when my life suddenly starts getting a little bit out of control.  I do it to regain a sense of control.  Also, because I like to operate outside of my comfort zone.  Where’s the fun in being normal?

I now know what I’m talking about, although I keep looking at what my topic is and I’m starting to feel like someone else has written it.  It’s not like I can’t do it.  I know I can do it, I mean getting up and talking is not going to kill me (well, OK, in theory, yes it could but it wouldn’t be directly related to talking, well, unless I suddenly got electrocuted or something… active imagination, I might have mentioned this).

What I guess I’m saying is I’m turning procrastination into an art form and I’m hoping beyond hope that I don’t stand up and make a complete and utter pillock of myself. 

Signs you’re probably losing the plot

You know, you have all these wonderful ideas, and thoughts and think ‘you know, I really should be blogging that’.  So when you finally get around to sitting down and moving your domain to point at standard WordPress hosted blog.  You faff around with the themes thinking ‘ffs woman, keep it simple, you never use anything else anyway’.  You reconfigure all your login details and act like a total nerd.

Then you sit there and think.  What the hell was I going to write in the first place? Yeah, so I’m having one of those days.

Sure I have a ton of things to write.  Predominately from the perspective that with any hope, downloading them out of my head I might actually stop processing them.  Like the actual act of conveying them to paper (yeah, I know, it’s not paper it’s 1s & 0s) will stop them from clogging my head.  I live in perpetual hope (no, seriously I do).