I am in my bath this morning and my son comes in to clean his teeth and chat to me.
"Mummy's a bit nervous," I tell him. "Because I'm going to my journalism course today."
"Why are you nervous mummy?"
"Because it's a beginners course."
"I used to be a journalist and because I used to be a journalist I shouldn't need to do a beginners course. Because it's a beginners course, the teacher might think that I should be better at it than I am."
"So don't tell her then! D.O.N.T. tell her! Don't tell her!" and with that he pours a bucket of water over my head and giggles that amazing laugh of his I love so much.
It's good advice. It's great advice. It would be fantastic advice if I was going for a paid job.
But holy comoly, even if I didn't blog, these housing events would be really distracting me.
Maybe it would be ok to tell her. I'm doing the course because it's funded by the council's Parent Council.
I think there are plans to start a website and given my work with the safeguarding board, I want to be part of that.
My support worker knows I am doing this course.
Why oh why am I feeling so overwhelmed by my own life, I can barely breath?
Anyway, I'm bloody late for this thing. Can I cycle to Holborn in 15 minutes? I don't think so...
Fuck fuck fuck stigmum, we could've waited to post all this stuff later...you've made me late late late.....