Ava is here which is why, blogwise, I am not. She’s a fabulously organised and gorgeous child, much like her mother, which results in everything being plain sailing so far. But blogs are the last thing I’m going to be bothered about while I have such a great excuse to loll about on the sofa, chucking my empty beer cans at the Jeremy Kyle Show. See, it’s not having a baby that turns your brain to breastmilk. It’s the horrors of daytime telly that do it. I won’t rant about said issue now - there’s a small child asleep on my cofee table (long story) who’s due for a scoff - but let it just be said that an issue it is and one I intend to shake my fist at at a later date.

Anyway, I’ll try to pop up again here over the coming weeks, in between feeds, sleep and visits from the police as they attempt to restrain me from anyone of a midwifical (if that’s not a word it should be) bent.  Until then you just go and enjoy the peace and quiet. No, don’t worry about me. Nope, I’ll be fine, really, I’ve only another 18 years to go. Jammy buggers.

I swear, I’m still picking unchewed rind out of my hair. Here’s why. Roughly halfway through the feature Franks recalls his conversation with Henry about the scene in Extras where Ricky Gervais’ character is asked to name a funny black British character but can’t even though a Lenny Henry poster hangs on the wall behind him. Franks asks Henry how he feels about this and Henry bats the question back at Franks. The next line in the feature reads:

“I answer that I thought he would probably find it offensive; that he might think it nasty, or racist, or a bit of both.”

My butty was safe within the confines of my chops until I read the R word whereupon, in its half-masticated state, it found itself spluttered over the kitchen wall.

Racist? Racist? Can someone explain to me why finding Lenny Henry unfunny could be racist before my arteries start shredding themselves? Is Franks seriously suggesting that to not laugh at Lenny Henry is in some way an act of racism? And if that is the case would he like to start reconsidering what seems to be his boundless embrace of all that calls itself PC?

Dear Jesus, and all the gnomes that dance around him. If being unable to raise a mirthful grunt at anything passing from Henry’s lips constitutes racist I’d better start carrying a burning cross.

Has it crossed Franks’ PC addled brain that if people don’t find Lenny Henry funny it’s because Lenny Henry isn’t - gasp! - funny? I know, it’s shocking, I said it, it’s out there. Personally I haven’t laughed at Lenny Henry since, well, the first time I ever clapped eyes on him. In fact I’ve buried members of my family with greater amusement than anything he’s ever burbled at an audience. The man is the most astoundingly dull comic - and I use the C word in its loosest sense there - that ever stalked onto a stage. And Franks, no, I don’t say that because he is black. I say that because he’s just bloody awful.

So what’s left of my Saturday morning? Well, apart from feling both patronised and offended I’m starving too, thanks to my breakfast being everywhere except where it should. Not only will I be sending Franks my rasher bill but he’s going to have to fix those shredded arteries too.

Yet while the tumbleweed has been blowing through my life it, at least, hasn’t been blowing through my brain. As ever the Janes noggin is busting with rantitude and, if you’ll permit me, I’ll treat you to a bit of it right now.

Let’s start with the two blokes who are currently inhabiting my spare bedroom/ soon-to-be-nursery while parading as carpet fitters. On second thoughts, lets agree that there are two blokes and a small herd of stampeding rhino up there instead. I’m suprised that you can’t hear them through the vibrations in your mouse. All I wanted was a roll of underlay and a shag pile to show the baby that her new parents aren’t as utterly useless as they look. Instead I’ve got chunks of plaster decsending from the ceiling above my head and the dawning realisation that they are knocking craters out of the nursery floor.

Add this to the fact that one of them thinks he’s on the X Factor (and by that I mean he is runt like and squealing lyrics that even the dire Westlife would reject) and it’s a good thing that I’m finally on maternity leave. If I had to work through this chaos I’d have impaled myself on a pencil by now. God knows, it’s bleak enough when I’m trying to blog.

“So, what are you doing these days? Still having a go at the journalist thing?”

Excuse me? Still having a go? Journalist thing?

“Nah,” I should have answered. “I couldn’t be arsed with journalism in the end. I tried it for a week but it just wasn’t enough of a challenge. Anyway, I’m a trapeze artist now. Ok, so the leotard keeps creeping up my bum but at least I get paid in sequins.”

Course, that’s not what I said at all. Instead I swallowed my urge to maim and kill and explained, for the 561st time that, as a professional journalist with a healthy list of clients, I am doing very well, thank you, earning a living, paying the taxman and going on holidays that were mentioned, deliberately, to turn them green.

Whatis it with people who think that because you’re freelance you’re not actually working for a living? That ‘freelance’ is code for ‘can’t be arsed to get a proper job’? God, you’d think that with the endless media spouting about work/ life balance and suicidal managers succesfully starting your own business and doing your dream job would be commended. Somehow, though, that’s just not the case. Instead it’s seen (I like to tell myself by uneducated fools) as how you kill time before Tesco begins it’s Christmas recruitment drive. “Freelance journalism?”, I’d say to my interviewer for the shelf-stacking position. “Oh, that’s nothing. Just a way of paying the bills before I got the chance to realise my ambition of lining up tins of Pedigree Chum.”

Tell me that these people aren’t being serious will you?

The problem, (well, one of the probs) is that Marvin, our faithful-as-long-as-you-have-a-choc-drop-in-your-hand hound, suffers from chronic bronchitis. He hacks like a Woodbine shareholder. So what do I get when said tradesmen and delivery folk stumble over our doorstep? Nothing but sage vet-like advice, that’s what. Lo! the house rings to such nuggets as “You should try taking him to the vets, love!” or “He’s got a bad cough darlin’. You done anything about it?”

Dear God.
“Actually,” I should say, “no. I’ve done bugger all. I thought we’d watch him slowly choke to death in his basket while you and I make merry over broken motors and reciepts for Rice bloody Krispies.”

Of course I’ve done something about it, you doorbell-bothering fools! His tablet intake makes him rattle like a maraca and he’s about to elope with his vet! Now unload the shopping bags, pick up your screwdrivers and…

Well, whether you are familiar with freelancing, hounds or handymen you can pretty much guess the rest.

You know the sort of thing. Thre are fears over flu epidemics, career cock-ups and festive pregnancies care of the lecherous MD. If the world of the HR PR is anything to go by the season of goodwill will soon be a season of bloodshed what with the myriad ways an employee can screw up their career at the swig of a festive egg-nog.

Has it always been like this? Did we always spend the winter months worrying about the career precipice that lies just beyond that corporate gift of Quality Street? Until I went freelance - effectively swapping workplace merriment for a cold and lonely minced pie in my back bedroom - the biggest festive worry faced by my colleagues and I was whether our post-party bare bums would fit on the photocopier glass. Struggling with seasonal depression, new year promotion prospects and the shame of the morning after never even fleeted across our minds.

Pity you couldn’t say that about Noddy bleedin’ Holder.

What I mean is that, thanks to the bun in my oven, I’m shifting my office to a different room in the house. Well, the child needs a nursery, by all accounts. And that means facing the purgatory that is emptying filing cabinets and discovering once-vital documents that weaseled their way behind radiators or under rugs. It also means that, as I bash out this post, I’m surrounded by teetering piles of my previous work. I’m squatting amongst enough newspaper and magazine cuttings to hold me entirely responsible for the destruction of the rainforests. Please, feel free to tie me to a composter where the endangered species of the world can nibble at my innards.

Anyway, it’s been nothing short of a shock, seeing my entire career carepeting my office. I’ve stumbled upon the first feature I ever wrote and the begging letter that landed me my first post as a journalist. There are letters from readers who considered me to be the embodiment of the second coming and letters from readers who swore that they’d throttle my family if they ever had the misfortune to bump into me. It’s boggling that I’ve forgotten it all. Well, they say that you’re as good as your last story. I’ve taken that literally. In fact I’ve developed the ability to erase any memory that preceeds the last copy I filed (four days ago if you’re wondering). Seeing my work spewing out of a filing cabinet, like that story about the porridge machine that drowned a village, has given me the distinct need for a sit down. Now, if only I could find a space to do it.

“Hello, Central Trains, how can I help you?”

“I’d like to book a ticket from Cardiff to Birmingham New Street please.”

“Certainly. When do you want to travel?”

“The 21st November.”

“The 25th November?”

“No, the 21st November.”

“Oh, the 23rd November.”

“No! The 21st of November.”

“The 21st?”

Needless to say whoever I was speaking to didn’t have a clue what I wanted even though she was parading as someone working at Central Trains. She didn’t even sound as if she knew what country I lived in, let alone where the hell Birmingham New Street happened to be, so I guess that explains why we had trouble communicating through my Welsh twang and her thick, Indian subcontinental accent. It remains to be seen whether I really will receive tickets for the date and times I want to travel. I suspect that she booked me on the slow train to Aberdeen three years from now rather than a fast route to Brum in just over a fortnight.

Is it just me or does your heart also sink when the call centre mole picks up the phone and you can’t understand what they are saying?

I recently endured the swooping joys of a dodgy internet connection. The upshot, to save you the tedium of the full story, was that I had to call Wanadoo several times in order to get the bloody thing working again. It didn’t help that each time I was put through to a country far, far away. The result? My explaining, to a man who lied about his name being Roger so that I wouldn’t guess that he was slaving in an Indian call centre, that the interweb had gone tits up Chez Janes. You can only imagine how the conversation went, not least because each time I called I had to explain my two syllable password three times before we could even skirt the problem. On my fifth attempt, and for some freakish reason, I actually got through to a UK-based call centre. The guy I spoke to was called Keith and we understood each other perfectly. He fixed the problem within minutes and, girlishly, I cried just from the relief of not having to be patched through to the other side of the frigging world again.

I’ll let you know if I ever get to Birmingham.

And grill her I did. The poor woman must have wondered if I’d demand her knicker size next. I wanted to know how she started, whether she found writing lonely, if she felt like a tit when she read over past efforts…I’ve never seen such patience in someone. She must have sunk into her car seat upon leaving and sobbed quietly over the steering wheel at the Cathy Bates-like nature of my number one fandom. 

But at least I made the effort. I was astounded at how many writers turned out for the event yet failed to ask her anything about her work. Perhaps my journalistic ways mean I’m born to fidget and probe. Perhaps others were too star struck to speak. On second thoughts I suspect it’s because, thanks to my over-animated mouth, no one else could get a word in edgeways. Bloody wimmin.