Well it's certainly been a gnarly couple of weeks. The Brit and I are exhausted; all the emotional stuff and constant needing to sort things out, while also driving to and from Hampshire every few days has really taken it out of us.
Last night we were asleep by 8pm.
There's just so much to do and so much to think of all the time.
When will we get rid of Sebastian's dummy, with his teething it's nigh impossible for him not to have it, but he needs it to fall asleep and I worry he will be sucking on it when he is 21 years old, when and how do I make the break, do I wait for the dummy fairy to appear when he is 2? Will he get what that is?
When do I drop this morning bottle of his, he also cannot cope with not coming into bed with us to have his bottle in the morning and I foresee him wanting to do this when he is a grown man, why oh why does this worry me so much and why don't I just let him have a bottle forever then?
We need to move. Our flat is too small. Where will we move? Will we still be relatively close to London? I dream of long, unbridled areas of space where children can run around in the open, and the rooms are roomy and the garden large. But then we'd need to leave Clapham. My home, the place I rather have grown to love over the years.
I have to do a live TV interview and radio interview this week. I get nervous about such things.
I fear Winter this year like I've never feared Winter before. The fear usually sets in about nowish, when there is an ever-so-slight, almost unrecognisable, but still very much there, chill in the air. The days are reaching 21 degrees and no higher.
But this year, I face Winter with a new, unchartered realisation. And the fear has mushroomed into terror.
I have a toddler.
What on Earth do people do with little boys in winter? I know the answer to this already, but allow me. At the moment, we spend entire days, do multiple visits, pretty much spend our weekends doing shift work at Clapham Common. Where there is coffee, swings, wide open spaces, a massive sandpit, and a cordoned-off area just for children to run around in.
This is all very well when the wind isn't howling at gale-force, the rain isn't coming down in 45% sheets in your face, it isn't freezing, and it isn't fucking dark.
One lives like a mole in winter here. You're either underground, or you come out when it's dark.
This is bothersome for a number of reasons, but mostly because you get Seasonal Affective Disorder. But at least you get to be indoors.
With a rambunctious, little boy toddler who has more energy than you can shake a stick at, I still have to go outside. And regularly. So that the chap can burn some of it off, so he doesn't claw his way up our walls with frustration.
Which means full-length rain suits, eight layers of thermals, putting that rain thing over the buggy over and over again, trying to be comfortable while being wet. And cold.
Yeah. Winter fills me with a panic so severe, I wonder whether I might convince the Brit that we immigrate back to Africa.
Or again, buy a house in deepest, darkest Kent. Where there is a play room. That we wallpaper from top to bottom with metres of those foam squares. And attach a Tarzan swing to the ceiling.
On the plus side, in about two months, we have three weeks in South Africa. before winter really sets in.