The day I decide to overshare...

My blog mojo is so low that it is currently catatonic. It's not that nothing is happening; it is, it's just that most of it - given the self-imposed restrictions on what I post - is unsuitable for The Potty Diaries.

But wait. What was that? Did I spy a life-belt in that first paragraph? Yes, I did, I did, and here it is bobbing towards me through the waves, all glossily white with red letters saying 'SS Potty Diaries' along the edge. (Give me a break here, it's been nearly a week with no inspiration; I'm allowed to get excited when some finally turns up, surely?)

'Self-imposed restrictions', that was it. Let's talk about that, shall we? Let's talk about what they are...

1. No names, no pack drill. This blog is anonymous. (Yeah, right, unless you happen to have bumped into me at some blog get-together, heard me speak at CyberMummy, have contacted me directly, asked me to participate in some pr junket, or similar. But apart from that, yes, I am completely anonymous).

2. No photos. Well, none of my children, anyway. Or my Husband. Or, indeed, anyone other than me. And not many of those either - well, I really think it's kinder not. Especially since I only recently started waxing the oh-so-subtle hair on the (can't believe I'm actually admitting to this in print) upper lip and, of which when I look back at previous 'before' photos, I can see the alarming evidence...

3. Nothing that I wouldn't want the person that I'm writing about to read in front of me. I know, think of all the mother-in-law anecdotes I'm missing out on here (although of course dear mother in law if you should ever read this, there are none, honestly!), but the thing is that once you hit 'publish' on a post it's out there. For EVER. Oh, you might think you can delete it but somewhere, somewhere, it's out there. So as much as I might want to write about the time that.... (ha! Got you going, right?)

4. Nothing that might put my family at risk. I'm not talking necessarily about hiding our exact location; we all know that with ip addresses etc you can't run, you can't hide. No, this is more about not writing contentious stuff about our current country of residence or the people in charge of it (check the top of the sidebar on the right if you're missing my point) which might attract the unwanted attentions of those formerly known by 3 initials (and who in fact are still known by 3 - but now different - initials) and who scared the crap out of George Smiley. It's not that the Potty Family lead a particularly exciting life, you understand, more that we are surrounded by people who do and blast it, there are some damn good stories there that I can never tell...

5. Nothing that might attract the crazies. For the reasons above. Lord knows, once we get back to Blighty, I will have plenty to say about a lot of things (or will if my vodka-soaked brain can still remember them) but for now, no. I'm keeping my own counsel...

6. Nothing libellous. Goes without saying, really, but it does rather conflict with ...

7. ...nothing too boring. Apart, of course, from the odd post about self-imposed restrictions on blogging.

Jesus. Is it any surprise my blog mojo has given up on me as a hopeless case?

So there you go. I've shown you mine; what are yours?

Apologies for the break in transmission...

So. Two things have happened. Firstly, I seem to have lost my blogging mojo a little. Well - a lot, actually. You might have noticed. And secondly, even if my blog-Mo-Jo were up and about rather than languishing on a beach sipping mojito's somewhere, it also appears that Real Life is starting to get in the way of blogging. What the hell? I thought that when both Boys started school there would be acres of empty space in my day, that I would find myself tapping away at the keyboard for long tranches of time, and that I would become ever more productive on the writing front.

HA!

And again, HA!

It hasn't worked out that way. This is partly due to having got myself involved in a couple of things at the Boys' school which seem to be taking up rather more of my days than I envisaged, but if I'm honest that's not all there is to it.

I've long promised myself, you see, that when Boy #2 started school properly (as in, full days, which finally happened last week), I would at last begin to properly experience Moscow. We've been here 9 months now and due to the fact that up until now I've mostly had my younger son in tow, I still feel a little as if I could be anywhere. But now that's changed I want to make better use of the limited time we have here to get out and about, and get under the skin of this city. I don't want to waste the chance to experience something so completely 'other' to my beloved London; just imagine if, in 10 years time, I mentioned in passing to a friend that I lived in Russia for a while, and on being pressed on what I did there I could only answer 'much the same as in London, really; a bit of work, looked after the kids, went for coffee with my mates, helped out at the school, shopping, laundry, housework...' I'm not slagging any of these pursuits off, you understand. But you can do them anywhere.

So I have set myself a task to get out of my normal routine whilst I'm here. That could mean having a cup of tea with Russian rather than English people, visiting a gallery or museum off the beaten track, cross country skiing in the forests outside town (once the snow comes, obviously - which I'm assured will be in 4 - 6 weeks, hurrah...), taking a Russian language exercise class, or simply walking through the city and finding the opportunities to take photographs like this one...

So don't hold me to it, but I guess what I'm saying is that posts might be a bit thin on the ground for a while. I'll still be here, you understand. But living life, rather than just writing about it. And who knows? Maybe my errant Blog MoJo might look up from her magazine on the beach in Mauritius, glance in my direction, and decide it's actually worth coming back over here for a look-see at what I'm up to...

In which I trawl through my draft archive...

My blogging mojo has stayed on holiday, it seems. Apparently there is a lot of this about right now, so I count myself in good company. However, that doesn't get away from the fact that the longer I leave it between posts the harder it gets, so here's one I made earlier and stored away in times of more plenty - at the end of last year, actually. In desperation and in search of inspiration, I just read it through this evening and despite our change of location, some of it (no names, no pack drill ,but cereal bowls and hormones may be involved) still seems relevant...

I feel as if I should have a sandwich board around my neck that reads:

'Treat with caution; Hormonal Female on the loose. May bite. Approach at your own risk'.

I started the day smoothly enough, but mid-morning bang! The Hormone fairy came to visit (any men reading, look away now) and I morphed from a fairly reasonable human being into a teenage witch (substitute 'w' with 'b' if you feel inclined). Not the normal fairly reasonable witch I've come to expect over the last few years. oh no. Instead her spikier cousin, freshly pissed off by who knows what and who, it seems, has a lot of unanswered QUESTIONS that no-one is able to answer. Or perhaps, they just don't want to get close enough to hear what the questions are. I know you don't want to know either (oh look, Aunty Paranoia has arrived too, how lovely!), but I'm going to ask them anyway...

Like...

How can a short walk with a preschooler, billed pre-departure as an exciting 'expedition' to the post office (I know, the glamour of my life knows no bounds) so quickly descend into a shouty stampy argument on the pavement outside our house over whether it's possible to scoot wearing new gloves. Even when they do look like fishes.

Like...

How long does a person need to stare vacantly into space to convince the older lady in front of them in the post-office queue that they they really DON'T want to engage in conversation about the second older lady who just stopped the queue-standing first older lady to ask if her fleece (featuring an attractive print of cats and dogs) had been hand-made for her? Would you think that would mean vacant space-staring would be required all the way to the counter, for the complete half hour it would have taken to reach it? I mean, I'm asking that question because I actually don't know; I bailed after 5 minutes of expectant looks and hopeful mutterings about long-dead cats and dogs thrown in my direction (I just have one of 'those' faces, it seems, even when I'm choc-full of Nastiness hormones) and headed to the bakers for a restorative ring donut which only made me feel dirty and used once I'd eaten it and - oh god...

Like...

Is it really so hard to put a dirty cereal bowl in the dishwasher rather than just leaving it on the work surface? I mean, IS IT??? IS IT???

Like...

How can I seemingly miraculously have been cured of my craving for chocolate and sweet stuff (I'll take this morning's donut under advisement, your honour), not really have indulged in either for around 3 weeks, and HAVE LOST NO WEIGHT? Tell me, HOW??? In fact, how can it be that I have in fact apparantly put weight on in the last day or so and....

Oh.

Right.

Which leads me to my last question....

How can a 42 year old woman forget something so obvious that occurs every month, for goodness' sake?

(And no, it wasn't pregnancy. Rather the opposite...)