Wakey wakey, Sharm El Sheikhy.

“Do you remember booking a holiday last night?”

Those were the words that greeted me one Saturday morning as I crawled down the stairs, squinting in the daylight and on a desperate search for coffee. Yes, I was hungover. What had gone from a simple “Fancy the pub after work?” had ended up with me drinking my own weight in wine, staggering home and booking an all inclusive holiday to Egypt.

Not only that but I’d announced it online without telling anyone first. (If I could use emojis here, I would use the little monkey with his hands in front of his eyes.)

Intoxicated online shopping should be illegal. I remember reading something online about an app being designed to stop drunk people from sending any embarrassing texts. Well, there should be one to stop you from ordering things online after a few glasses of wine, too. Annoyingly, my spontaneous holiday booking isn’t the only time I’ve indulged in wine-induced-purchasing.

In my second year of university, I woke up to find my laptop half open and discarded on my bedroom floor. The sight that greeted me was my eBay homepage. I didn’t remember going on eBay before I went out last night? I’d thought. Then it hit me. I’d gone on eBay as I came home from the night out and later found myself the proud owner of some very extortionately priced solar powered fairy lights. In the shape of daisies. Very nice, very twee, but did I remember buying them? No. I also didn’t remember forking out thirty quid for them either. (I was a student. Thirty quid was the difference between eating well or spaghetti hoops on toast twice a day for the rest of the month.)

To be fair, they actually looked quite cool when they arrived but I lived in Ormskirk, for crying out loud. Ormskirk didn’t experience enough sunshine for these lights to ever work. They stayed with me for about a year and when I moved back to Warrington, they got binbagged.

There was also a memorable time when I turned twenty one and was overjoyed to be sent tickets to see Wicked in the West End. Until I saw my online bank statement and realised they were a present from drunk me to sober me. So generous. Still, it was a great night.

Back to my hungover Saturday. I lay on the sofa, wrapped myself in a blanket and began to piece the evening together. We hadn’t even been out out. It had just been the pub after work with some of the work gang. As it was, it was the time between my old car being written off and my new car being bought, meaning I wasn’t one of the designated drivers. I had taken this as the perfect excuse to get roaring drunk – as well as it being payday and the payday where we got paid our Christmas bonuses - and the rest, as they say, is history. I was eight hundred pounds lighter and was apparently going to Sharm El Sheikh just four months later.

“Have you even booked the time off work?” This was my mother speaking. The Voice Of Reason. Always one to keep my feet on the ground.

Ah. No. I hadn’t. Clearly, I hadn’t thought about anything other than the sunshine when I clicked confirm and pay. What if work couldn’t give me the time off?

Thankfully, I arrived in work on the Monday, rather sheepishly I’ll admit, and submitted a holiday request which came back hours later saying all was fine. Breathing a sigh of relief, I allowed myself to feel a little bit excited. I hadn’t been abroad since October 2013 so this was definitely a welcome break.

My next hurdle was one that I hadn’t given a huge amount of thought to until other people started to question me on it. You see, I’d booked the holiday for me and my mum. It hadn’t felt strange to me at all. I live with my mum. It’s just the two of us and we get on like a house on fire, thanks mostly to her fine cooking and her ability to drown out most of my moaning. In fact, she reckons the three things I say the most are:

1) "I'm so cold"

2) "I'm so tired"

3) (My mum’s personal favourite) “I can’t cope”. I must say this at least five times a day. If my computers running a bit slow, it starts raining, Coronation Street isn’t on, I’m aching from top to toe from a work out or we don’t have any biscuits in are all valid excuses for saying that you can’t cope.

I’d booked the holiday for my mum because she’d been a bit down after my dad had left and one of the things that had upset her the most was that she wouldn’t go on holidays abroad anymore (lol) so factor in the world’s crappiest six months that I’d had, it seemed like a logical solution. To other people, it was their idea of hell. “What will you do on holiday with your mum there?”, “If that was me and my mum, we’d have fallen out on the plane on the way there” and “What if you want to pull?” were some of the genuine questions people asked me.

I just laughed. It wouldn’t feel strange at all, surely, I’d thought. I mean, we live together after all. And we get on like two sisters. Whenever people come and stay, they always comment on our relationship. I remember once someone’s jaw dropping as they whispered, “I can’t believe you just said cunt in front of your mum!” Me and my mum looked at each other and roared with laughter. It’s always been like that. Perhaps it’s Youngest Child Syndrome. She’s been there and done that with my two older sisters so nothing I can say or do really shocks her. Or maybe she just gave up on me years ago and she’s just humoured me ever since.

Considering the fact that I grew up in such a loud busy house with an even louder busier family, I did wonder if it would feel weird being just the two of us but we love it. She likes house renovation programmes like Sixty Minute Makeover and Location, Location, Location and I’m a self confessed soap addict and can’t go a day without Corrie or Hollyoaks but we meet in the middle with original British dramas. A kidnap, a murder mystery, a family drama – we bloody love it. Not in real life, obviously. Just on TV. All in all, I felt pretty confident that everything would be fine.

Of course, in the lead up to a holiday, every woman starts to panic about her size. The mirrors in store changing rooms are unkind, making your bum look ten times bigger than it really is. As it turned out, the day before we flew, I was competing in the Great Manchester Run so I decided to focus on my training in the hope that this would also let me lose a few pounds. Only that was easier said than done.

Time started ticking much quicker than I would have liked. Before we knew it, it was February. Then March. Then April. April is such a hard month for me to diet as it’s my birthday month but this year, it was also Easter as well. Four days off work for the Easter bank holiday weekend eating nothing but chocolate eggs means you’re a little wobblier than you might like. Then a week of birthday celebrations: cake, wine, cake, wine, more wine, more cake, glass of wine anyone? My old insecurities came back and I started panicking.

The Voice Of Reason tried to make me see logically. The last time I’d been abroad, swanning around in a bikini, I was almost four stone heavier and my bikini was a size sixteen. Yes, but I’m still fat. Your BMI is fine. You’re a healthy weight for your size. My arse is the size of Japan. Don’t be ridiculous. You’re wearing size ten jeans. Pack it in. But but but – I could’ve gone on and on and on.

The strange thing is I’m actually really enjoying exercising. Yes. You read that correctly. If you flick back to 2013’s blogs, I’m fairly certain you’ll stumble across an entry which boldly declares how you’ll never find me in the gym. Ah, bless.

Compulsory exercise aside, I’ve never been one for working out before. In fact, I still don’t love it. Sometimes I really have to drag myself out of bed or off the couch and practically force myself to work out. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I leap into action, knowing I’ve gained a few pounds and wanting to do something about it. And sometimes I spend all day in work typing away thinking of that night’s aerobics or yoga class and I instantly perk up.

It’s at this point I should probably explain my Four Pound Slide theory. My weight fluctuates easily. That’s not a theory. It’s a fact. If I spend two weeks lounging around the house in my scruffs, steadily eating my way through a large pile of Easter eggs and drinking wine every single night, then I gain weight at the drop of a hat. It’s more obvious to me, of course, seeing as I see myself naked every day and maybe to some people, they’re either too polite or too unobservant to realise – but I know. And it’s always four pounds that I gain. Even if it’s just one long lazy weekend of no exercise and a few meals out, I gain four pounds.

Thankfully, it also goes the other way. If I need to lose weight for an occasion – a wedding, a night out, a party – I only have to spend a short time eating healthily and exercising. Within days, and I mean days, I’ve dropped four pounds. Never more. Never less. My ideal weight is ten stone. I feel happiest and healthiest at ten stone. The reality is I’m usually ten stone four. Have been for months. When the Four Pound Slide occurs, I either drop to my ideal weight or I balloon to over half a stone more than my ideal weight. It’s a pickle. But I’ve learnt to live with it. 

By the time it got to the night before the holiday, however, I couldn’t have cared less. After the Great Manchester Run, I treated me and my sister who had also competed in the run to a McDonalds. We got the train back to Warrington, nipped into the shop and bought two chocolate bars each. I got home, my mum made me a massive tea and I fell asleep at eight o’clock from sheer exhaustion and an adrenaline crash. I woke up the following morning, weighed myself and discovered I was ten stone six. Ah well.

The hotel we stayed at was called the Xperience St George Homestay and it was perfect. This was my third stay in Egypt and I’d stayed in lovely hotels before but this was something else. Until you stay somewhere like Sharm, you don’t always realise how dependent you are on your hotel. Unlike holidays to Spain or Greece, you are literally in the middle of nowhere and if you have a crappy hotel, you’ll likely have a crappy holiday. Don’t get me wrong, you can get a short taxi ride out to restaurants or shops but they are few and far between. It’s quite sad really when you see the real Sharm El Sheikh without any of the tourism. It’s just a lot of burnt out buildings and desert.

We loved it and it was a Brucey Bonus for us when our flight home was delayed and eventually cancelled, meaning we got an extra night and two extra days in the sunshine. Our hotel staff couldn’t have been more helpful, letting us stay on without a second’s thought and not taking a penny from us, even when they gave us another all inclusive wristband for as much food and drinks as we wanted for free. Bless them.

And for everyone who’s asked me what it was like being on holiday with my mum when I’m a fully grown adult, what can I say? It was brilliant. The first morning there, my alarm went off and I chivvied my mum out of bed with a desperate plea of “It’s nearly half past eight. All the sun loungers have gone!” Only it wasn’t and they hadn’t. There’d been some confusion regarding the time as Egypt had cancelled their summertime, meaning the clocks didn’t go forward at the end of April as they normally did. But we were still an hour ahead of England. My phone went forward two hours, only I didn’t realise, so I changed it by an hour ahead. Meaning on our first day in Egypt, we got up and sat by the pool at five thirty in the morning. Glorious sunshine. Breakfast wasn’t open. We were shattered and completely baffled by what was happening. Needless to say, the words "I'm so tired" and "I can't cope" were muttered more than once that day.

We had a lovely time with as many cocktails as we could manage (cue my mum cringing with, “Do I really have to ask the waiter for a Sex on the Beach?”) and a full body massage each in the spa, which caused hours of laughter as we were smeared with what felt like porridge oats on our sunburnt skin but what was actually dried cocoa. It’s good for exfoliating. Apparently. We were then left in a dark room wrapped tightly in towels with a face mask each on. We were there for a long time. So long that my mum, hysterically laughing, stage whispered "Do you think they've forgotten about us? Should we call for help?"

We kept getting disapproving looks from the salon workers as we were howling with laughter for so many reasons: a) the porridge oats were everywhere and I mean everywhere, meaning we were dying to scratch but our arms were strapped down by the towels, b) we’d been in the Jacuzzi and my mum couldn’t sit still but kept floating off because of the overpowering bubbles ("Sit still, relax, feel the water working your body", "I can't, I can't sit still!") and c) during my massage, the woman kept hitting me. Literally pummelling my skin like I’d insulted her upbringing. I’d suspected this might happen as I’d had a full body massage the last time I was in Egypt and I felt I’d been abused then as well.

Another particularly memorable moment was my mum encouraging me to swim in the pool so she could take some photos of me. I got out, lay down on the sun lounger and she was very pleased with herself as she announced, smugly: “I’ve taken some really good photos of you there. You looked great, really tanned.” Yes. The photos were great. But they weren’t of me. Oh no. I had thirty photos of my mum’s chin. Old people and iPhones…

The whole holiday was just one giggle after another, especially when an airport security man was chatting to my mum and asking all about her. She was firing back her answers like she was giving evidence.

“What’s your name then?”

“Angela Chriscoli, sir. C-H-R-I-S-C-O-L-I”

“Where have you been staying?”

“Sharm El Sheikh, sir.”

“Did you have a nice time?”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

It was only when I was crying laughing and managed to choke out “you do realise he was flirting with you?” that we howled at what he must’ve thought. She thought she was being targeted for questions as a threat to the airport and he looked increasingly amused as she barked her answers out to him whilst flashing her passport in his face.

I won’t bore you to tears with all the photos I’ve taken – apologies to anyone who has me on Instagram! I know it was bordering on ridiculous! – but I’ll put up a couple so anyone who is thinking of going away can have a good mooch at the hotel we stayed at because it really was lovely and I have every intention of returning there, maybe with the compensation we’re getting for the flight delay!

So, there we are. I’ve come back a little browner, a lot happier and needless to say, four pounds heavier than when I went. Ah well.

P.S.

While we were away, we couldn’t help but stare at the people who were taking full advantage of the all inclusive food and drinks. From the red faced Scottish man who demanded rum and coke at nine o’clock in the morning to the entire family who went back and got three or four plates of chips every day for their lunch, it just opened our eyes to typical Brits abroad behaviour.

Whilst we were more than content with salad, humus and pitta breads and of course, experimenting with unknown food, some people just couldn’t wander out of their comfort zones.

Before we’d gone away, we’d decided to do the £5 challenge where you live on £1 a day for food for five days to raise awareness about the ever increasing need for local food banks. After eating like kings for nine days, we're more determined than ever to do it. As a family who regularly donate to Warrington’s food banks (there’s a collection point at Tesco on Winwick Road. Just pop a box of cereal and a loaf of bread in there next time you’re in) we’re going to go for it and I’ll stick it up on here so keep your eyes peeled.

Until next time xx

Four doctors, two lawyers and a fireman.

Twenty four is a funny old age. You’re not quite grown up but you’re certainly not in your teenage years either. Half of your friends are succumbing to a comfortable lifestyle with their fella. The other half are still living for the weekend: spending their days in a meaningless albeit pretty well paid job (which has absolutely nothing to do with their university degree) and whiling away their free time lying on the sofa in their mum’s house fighting a monstrous hangover. You can’t log into your Facebook account without seeing scan pictures or photos of a couple grinning away at the camera whilst holding out her left hand, proudly displaying an engagement ring. Every time you go to a family function, you have to grin and bare your great auntie’s questions about life: “Where do you think you’ll be in ten years time?” “Whatever happened to that lad you were seeing in the summer?” and “In my day, we were all married by your age. Why is it you're still single?”

Great. Fan-fucking-tastic. Part of you is secretly glad that you aren’t one of the young married couples – facing the huge responsibility of a mortgage, a baby and a husband is sometimes too much to stomach when you still can’t quite believe that despite you brushing it off with “yeah, I only graduated a couple of years ago”, the truth is, it was actually four years ago and you’ve been in the same dead end job since (despite bitterly protesting that it was only for six months; you were only going to stay until Christmas; you’ll wait to see if you get promoted; you can’t bring yourself to leave).

But then the other part of you, the part which classes watching eight hours of Netflix in one go as a day well spent, is starting to panic. What if this is all it’s meant to be? What if I’m always the single one? The one people come to for a good night out, some fashion advice and a whinge about their fella? What if I never get married/have a baby/buy a house/get a proper job/create a grown up life? Does it really matter? Just because society expects you to do all of the above before the age of thirty two, does that mean you have to? What if you’re happy spending your days going through the McDonalds drive-thru in your Primark pyjamas and spending a small fortune on shoes and false lashes? Do you really have to give all of that up?

Well, the short answer is no. You don’t. You can do all of the fun stuff whilst spending your life with someone and the nicest part is, if you’re with the right person, all the other stuff – the scary conversations in the bank, the birth plan, the saving for your honeymoon – that will all be as equally fun. But what if the people you keep dating/meeting/sleeping with are all absolute losers? If I'm being completely honest, I have a very low opinion of men at the minute. This isn't in a modern day feminist sort of way, either. It's just what I've discovered over the last few years. You know the little part of your brain which pipes up as you're helping yourself to a rather large piece of chocolate when you're supposed to be on a diet? Yeah, I'm not sure if men have that.

The first thing you need to look at is where you keep meeting your potential love quests. For me personally, I tend to go for people I work with. Always have done. Rookie error. Don’t do it. Avoid at all costs. That isn’t to say that people who work together and live together aren’t happy - it just means that if things go wrong, work can become a very hostile environment. Which nobody needs if they’re going through a break up. If you want to wear the same dress twice in one week and you opt for the extra half an hour in bed and to dry shampoo your hair into a scruffy bun, you should bloody well get to do so in comfort without getting funny looks from across the office or any sarcastic remarks at the water fountain.

So, where else can you meet a potential love quest? Personally, I adore cute unexpected love stories. Let me tell you one I heard at the hairdressers. My hairdresser’s friend was going through a really rough time. She’d been made redundant, she was on antidepressants and things really weren’t going her way. She was filling her car up at the petrol station and without really concentrating, she’d used diesel instead of petrol. (Schoolboy error. We’ve all nearly done it at one point in our driving lives.) Hysterical, she rang the RAC and within an hour, there was a nice chappie rectifying the error. They got talking, they swapped numbers and they’re now happily married with a baby.

Let me tell you about my two sisters. My oldest sister was involved in a drunken piggyback ride on her twenty first birthday and it resulted in her breaking her jaw. She was helped by a male friend she’d known for years, who quite literally held her jaw in place whilst in A and E, and now they’ve been married for six years and have produced three wonderful boys. My other sister met her husband in Year Seven at school but, being from a Spanish family, he moved to Spain before the year was out. When he came back to Warrington, he went to a different school. They got speaking on Facebook ten years later and despite my brother in law fighting in Afghanistan at the time, hey presto, they’re married with two cherubs.

They’re the kinds of stories I love. Although each love story is unique and special to the couple it involves, I just think that sounds much nicer and much more meant to be than “I poked your mum on Facebook and met up with her in Showbar” or “We met on Tinder.”

I’ve never been one for internet dating. I’ve nothing against it – I just don’t think it’s right for me. It’s not that I think it would be awkward, I just think meeting up with someone you don’t know is a little odd. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying everyone you speak to on the internet is planning to lure you to their secret chamber and behead you – although it is a possibility! – the chances are, they’re just normal people like yourself who also don’t know how to successfully date. But there's something about purposely seeking someone for romance which strikes me as a little sad. Whatever happened to good old fashioned romance? Falling in love instead of choosing to love?

Now, I’ve never had Tinder or been on Plenty of Fish, which to my knowledge are both free to download and use. A few of my friends have. A couple have had a few dates out of it. One of them is very happily in love with her lovely boyfriend who she met on Tinder. Which is great and I couldn’t be happier for both of them. But this just doesn’t sit well with me. It’s not something I could ever see myself doing, which is ironic considering online dating pretty much relies on your written communication skills. Something I feel very confident with.

Okay. Internet dating is out of the question for me. I refuse to be involved with anyone from work. I’m no longer at university, which was the easiest place in the world to meet the opposite sex. I haven’t had my petrol station/broken chin/Afghanistan love story, so where does that leave me? I had this conversation very recently with a fellow single friend of mine. She mentioned speed dating. I howled into my glass of wine.

Me? Speed dating? The image just didn’t correlate at all. Somehow, I couldn’t quite picture myself going from table to table in some dingy little pub, shaking lots of sweaty hands and answering questions from a forty something bearded accountant such as, “Do you come here often?” Even thinking about it makes me cringe. Seriously, I thought, what are the chances of a Channing Tatum lookalike coming to a speed dating event?

Weeks later, another single friend suggested we go to a speed dating event in Manchester. I was umming and aahing about it for a few days. Would it be awkward? Uncomfortable? Boring? Would I want the ground to swallow me up? What if I ended up sat with someone who I just really didn’t click with and I had no option but to leg it to the toilet and escape through the window?

No, I scolded myself. You’re being ridiculous. A room full of nice single men from Manchester (not Warrington – thank Christ. There’s nothing worse than going on a date with someone and realising you’ve got his ex girlfriend on Facebook or that you work with his mum) sounds like an unexpectedly nice evening. I mean, what else was I going to do on a random midweek evening other than sit and watch The Chase in my pyjamas with my mum, uploading inspirational quotes to Instagram and eating my way through the kitchen? Plus, I’d promised myself that this year, I was going to try new things and speed dating was definitely new. Toughen up, kid, I thought. You’re going.

And I did.

We arrived a little bit late. The email had said the event would start at eight o’clock but we needed to be there by twenty past seven to register and mingle. Yes. You read that correctly. We were expected to mingle with the very same men we would be awkwardly chatting to half an hour later. Due to the traffic, we arrived at gone half past seven. It was taking place in La Tasca on Deansgate. A very nice little restaurant with an underground bar. We were in the bar and the whole room had been hired out for us to use.

As soon as we walked in, I got butterflies. Not because I’d found love at first sight but purely down to nerves. Why was I nervous? I honestly don’t know. I literally never get nervous – once you’ve done a fourteen minute monologue in professional theatre in nothing but your underwear, there’s not really much that phases you – so why was I suddenly feeling quiet, awkward and – dare I say it – shy? The words Emily Chriscoli and shy do not go together.

Initially, I’d been torn whether to have a drink or not but after this, I decided to get a double. Unfortunately, there was only one girl behind the bar and she didn’t speak a word of English. In fact, when we were running late, I’d phoned ahead to the bar and spoken to this girl and explained we were on our way but were bumper to bumper. She kept asking me if I wanted to book a table. She was obviously very new and was struggling to recognise the twenty pound note I handed her. I wasn’t filled with much hope for our drinks as she came back and asked me twice what my order was. She promptly forgot to bring the Diet Coke I’d ordered for my friend and knowing there was no point explaining it for a third time, I abandoned all hopes for the Diet Coke. I didn’t want to trouble her with a refund. The poor girl looked terrified at the sight of forty thirsty nervous speed daters.

Anyway, the event didn’t start at eight as promised. It started at half seven. Because of the slow moving bar experience, people didn’t take their seats until quarter to. Horrified, I realised my first date was already sat at my designated table (the girls stay seated, the boys go from table to table) and he was looking around to see where his invisible date was. The bar girl dropped the glass of vodka and coke I was buying for my other friend. She moved slower than a dying slug as she got on her hands and knees to clean it up. I was desperate. I was now the only person at the bar. We only had four minutes with each date and I’d spent well over half of that trying to get a drink.

With only twenty seconds to spare, I ran to my table, flustered and thirsty but no longer nervous. Luckily, it made a very good ice breaker as I launched into the explanation for my absence. He laughed. I laughed. We chatted (very briefly) and the hostess rang the bell, signalling the men to swap over. Wow. Was that it? Had I successfully completed my first ‘date’?

Over the course of the next twenty minutes, I met a selection of very nice men. The age range for the event was twenty four to forty. Being twenty four, I was the youngest person there which made it a little uncomfortable when I was chatting to men from the other end of the scale. Don’t get me wrong, I love an older man but the oldest I’ve been with is mid thirties and that was at a push. There’s not a huge amount of things I have in common with older men. What do you talk to them about? Motorbikes? Bald spots? Midlife crisis’?

They were all more than pleasant to speak to, except for one man whose name I will change, just in case there’s the very slim chance that he reads this. Let’s call him Barry. Barry was actually forty four. Four years older than the specified age range. Barry spent a good three minutes telling me about his problems with his ex wife (without even asking me where I’m from, what I do for a living – in fact, he didn’t ask me anything about myself at all. I sat there in silence with the occasional verbal nod as input) and how he has abandoned twenty years of working as a chef to start his own cavity wall and loft insulation business which isn’t doing very well. Great. Oh wait, his ex wife is trying to ruin his business? She’s a money grabbing leech? Nice. Barry, here’s a tip for any future dates you may go on – speedy or otherwise – don’t talk about your ex. It’s uncomfortable for all involved. Besides, you can’t move on if you’re still living in the past, son.

There was the odd person who I just didn’t click with. They were perfectly lovely, just not for me, including one bloke who was probably one of the youngest men there and he literally just said "Can I add you on Facebook?" before saying anything else. I was so taken aback, I didn't really know what to say and mumbled something about hating Facebook but he could follow me on Twitter. By the time we were on our way home, my phone lit up and low and behold, he had found me on Facebook.

Two men were foreign and one spoke such little English that I felt as if I was in a bad comedy sketch. “You are no cinema, yes?” Sorry, Baklav mate, it's never going to work. One man came over to me in the interval (yes, you get a break after every ten dates or so for a toilet break or God forbid another drinks order) and demanded to know why he hadn’t seen me yet. Maybe because you haven’t got round to my table yet?! He then proceeded to fire questions at me whilst I was trying to move over to my friend’s table to have a quick mid-date catch up. And they were the oddest questions someone can ask another person in an attempt to get to know them: "What's your favourite colour?" "Are you a Sagittarius?" and my personal favourite, "How much do you earn?" I am not kidding.

What did surprise me was how many doctors there were there. I’m not sure what I was expecting but I certainly didn’t think there’d be that many doctors. There were lots of other careers including lawyers, firemen, teachers, DJs and one guy who was a ranger. And he bloody loved his job. He had an in depth discussion with my friend about how he could kill an animal with his bare hands. Bravo, my friend. But going back to the doctors, most of them explained that due to a hectic schedule, they never have any time to meet someone. Interestingly, they were the most pleasant to speak to and unlike some of the other men, they didn’t automatically demand to know your job title. They would happily speak about anything else and only when prompted did they reveal that they were a doctor, whereas if that was me, I would be shouting it from the rooftops.

There was one doctor who works in Warrington who was particularly good looking and he had a lovely smell. (That’s always important. There was more than one person at speed dating who were in desperate need of a Tic Tac.) In the car on the way home, we all agreed that he was lovely and the following day, when you put your yes’s into the website, it came up with a match which means he’d put a yes for me too. (You also get to see who else put you down as a ‘yes’)This means that we get each other’s number and can arrange a date. I’m not sure yet whether I’ll go – it feels a little bit like meeting someone off the internet, despite having met him in the flesh, but it’s nice to know the option’s there.

Strangely enough, the whole evening was fantastic. We spent the whole night laughing – sometimes with the person across the table and the rest in the car on the way home. It was a total success and I’m glad I went, as are the other girls I went with. It was nice getting dressed up, having a few drinks and meeting new people in a new place, plus everyone went out for drinks in Manchester afterwards. Understandably, speed dating nights or singles nights have a bit of a stigma attached to them. I understand this. I had this same opinion until I went myself. The best way to describe a speed dating night is by comparing it to the evening do at a wedding. You've had a few drinks, you're in a merry mood, you're sat at a table with people you've only just met and yet it isn't awkward, it's fun. You'll never meet anyone new if you just socialise with the same group of people. You'll end up going back to old habits and trust me, still being messed about by boys who work in a call centre gets very old after a while.

There’s another speed dating night coming up in Stockton Heath and another one in Liverpool, especially for military men. If any single ladies fancy it, let me know and you’re more than welcome to come along. A few cocktails down your neck and you’ll have a laugh if nothing else. Besides, you never know, you might be telling your grandkids in fifty years time that the love of your life was date number eleven on an otherwise rainy night in February.

Reasons to be cheerful.

As you probably know, my last two blog entries have been a bit low. I was – what me and my friend Kate like to say – being a Debbie Downer. I decided that 2015 was going to be a happy year for me and I stand by that. So far, it’s been great. Although we are only one month in.

I was lying in the bath one evening and I got my thinking cap on. (This is very often the case when I’m in the bath. It’s the perfect thinking spot. I write in my bed, think in the bath and get inspired on public transport. Yes, I lead a very sad life.) I got to thinking about positivity and what makes us feel happy and bright. As I’ve already pointed out - and I promise I won't bang on about it for much longer - The Perfect Ten is all about a person’s happiness. If you’re a one, you’re desperately unhappy. If you’re a ten, you’re blissfully happy. A normal, healthy person will be anywhere from seven to ten. But for some people, that’s damn near impossible.

For some people, getting out of bed in a morning is a momentous task. Don’t get me wrong, we all hate getting out of bed at least two or three days during the week – the weather might be cold, your bed is nice and toasty and it’s still dark outside, meaning you hit the snooze button more times than is strictly necessary. But I'm not talking about winter laziness. I'm talking about unhappiness. There are all sorts of reasons why people might not be happy – health problems, grief, depression, money worries, crippling anxiety, weight issues, low self esteem, no confidence. The list is endless. 

Undoubtedly, you’ll already know that I’ve battled with unhappiness myself very recently. I'm not for a moment saying I've struggled to get out of bed or struggled to get through the day. Thankfully, I've not. I've got a great momma who wouldn't let me spend the entire day clad only in My Little Pony pyjamas whilst cocooned in my duvet, as much as that might sound appealing on this cold and frosty Friday morning. She's very hands on and positive and hosts a kind of, "Okay, world, bring it on!" attitude which thankfully, I seem to have inherited. As they say, the devil makes work for idle hands. If I keep myself busy, I'm pretty much guaranteed to have a good day. If I don't have any plans other than to mooch about the house, watching TV and eating my own weight in Toblerone - as much that is one of my favourite pastimes - I do tend to end up feeling rather maudlin.

There has been a couple of times where I've started to question what I've done wrong in a past life to deserve the wheelbarrow of shit that has been foisted upon me lately. But then, after a while, I'll shake my head, pull myself together and stop being a Debbie Downer. Let's be honest. It isn't about doing something wrong in a past life. It isn't even about doing something wrong in this life. For a long time, I thought karma dictated our lives. The general consensus is if you do something horrible to another person, eventually, something horrible will happen to you.

If you think about it, I bet you can probably name a person who you think is a horrible little rat but for some unknown reason, they keep coming up smelling of roses. I know I can. And I'm not just talking about someone you don't particularly like. I'm talking about someone who has gone out of their way to hurt you. Well, don't worry. Their time will come. And, unlike you, it won't be that they have a bad year in their early twenties. It will be in years to come, when everyone else has got their lives together. If someone has done something truly terrible on purpose, it will catch up with them. No doubt about that.

But don't focus all of your energy on someone else's happiness or unhappiness. If you spend too much time wondering about other people - who, if you're really being honest with yourself, you don't actually know very well, if at all - you will be bypassing your own happiness. Your own life. Stop checking her Facebook to see what she's up to. Stop stalking his brother's girlfriend's sister's best friend's Instagram. Concentrate on you. Smile.

So, it's not that I'm saying karma doesn't exist. It does. But life doesn't depend on it. If you're unhappy, it isn't because you did something terrible six years ago last Wednesday. Equally, if wonderful things keep happening to you, it isn't the universe trying to make up for you being picked last for netball in Year Seven and it isn't the universe saying sorry for you failing your driving test nine times. It doesn't work that way.

The bottom line is - do good and good will come to you. But if it doesn't, that doesn't necessarily mean you're a bad person. You're not Adolf Hitler reincarnated. It just means you need to keep smiling. Unless you can actually think of one or more specific things you have done on purpose which are spiteful, nasty, hurtful or wrong, then you aren't a bad person. And if you're stuck in a bit of a rut of bad luck, it's just life throwing you lemons. Take those lemons. Make tequila. Have a party. It will get better.

I remembered reading something online a few years ago and it was about reasons for why small but annoying things might happen to a person on a day to day basis. I searched for it online a few weeks ago when I thought about writing this blog entry. I won't bore you to tears by posting the entire thing, but I'll post a few lines here:

Me (frustrated): Why did you let so much stuff happen to me today?

GOD: What do you mean?

Me: Well I woke up late.

GOD: Yes

Me: My car took forever to start.

GOD: Well let me see….. the angel of death was at your bed this morning and I had to send one of the other angels to battle him for your life. I let you sleep through that.  I didn’t let your car start because there was a drunk driver on your route that might have hit you if you were on the road.

That's literally just a snippet but I recommend you read the whole thing. Again, my feelings towards religion are a bit fuzzy at the moment and I'm not actively religious anyway but this comforted me. So - back to when I was lying in the bath - I made a mental list of all the times I’ve felt happy over small, seemingly insignificant things. After five or ten minutes, feeling surprisingly chipper, I decided to write them down so when I am having a bad day, hopefully, I’ll be able to smile.

Mostly, they are the wonderings of a twenty something year old girl but I like to think they apply to most people. If you're feeling sad or down or even just a little bit grumpy, switch the kettle on (or uncork the wine!), sit back and relax, kid.

1. Finding money in an old forgotten bag.
2. Waking up naturally, before your alarm goes off and spending ten minutes having a little doze.
3. The sun shining on a day you really need it to shine – graduation day, barbecue, birthday, wedding. Yes, you don’t have to battle with an umbrella!
4. Receiving positive feedback about work you’ve done. Especially if it’s something you put your blood, sweat and tears into.
5. Christmas with children. Perfect.
6. Seeing someone you haven’t seen for a long time and laughing and joking with them as if no time has passed.
7. Getting into a toasty warm car when you’ve been stood in the pouring down rain.
8. Being called beautiful.
9. Sitting down after you’ve been stood in a queue for a long time.
10. Someone complimenting your hair when you least expect it. Sometimes it’s nice to know you don’t look as crap as you may feel!
11. Waking up in a panic, thinking you're late for work... then the realisation hits you that it's your day off.
12. Trying on an old pair of jeans which still fit you perfectly.
13. Turning your pillow to the cold side during the night.
14. Taking your clothes off after a day of sitting outside and realising you have caught the sun.
15. Being hugged really tightly. From behind. When you least expect it. From someone you love. Not a stranger. That would be odd.
16. Fantasising about a certain meal all day, then getting home, making it and it tasting ten times better than you imagined.
17. Freshly shaved legs when you’re in bed.
18. Seeing someone you care about really happy. There is no nicer feeling than sitting at the wedding of someone you love dearly, smiling whilst a little tipsy and thinking, Ahh, I’m so glad I’m here to witness this.
19. Watching old home videos.
20. When you feel the first sips of alcohol hit your stomach and you get that strange warm feeling.
21. Changing the channel on the TV and finding one of your favourite films, just as it’s starting.
22. Bare feet on the beach. Or the grass. Or anywhere, really.
23. That first sip of coffee in the morning.
24. Guessing the time, looking at a clock and realising you had it spot on.
25. Air conditioning in your hotel room on holiday.
26. Taking an item to the till in a shop and being told it’s half price.
27. Eskimo kisses.
28. Being a bridesmaid, a best man or a godparent. 
29. When you're not feeling your best and your pet tries to cheer you up.
30. Putting clothes on straight from the tumble drier and they’re still warm.
31. Morning sex.
32. Starting a new job and meeting a colleague who you instantly warm to and click with.
33. Duvet days = comfy clothes, fuzzy socks, comfort food, box sets.
34. When an animal winks at you.
35. Catching up on your advent calendar when you’ve missed the last few days.
36. Being able to smell your perfume on the neck of your dress.
37. Reading your Horoscope and feeling positive for the week ahead.
38. When you've had a cold for weeks and you can finally breathe through your nose.
39. Unexpected presents.
40. Meeting someone’s baby for the first time and the baby smiles at you.
41. That feeling of job satisfaction when you've successfully changed the bedding on a double bed. On your own.
42. Mentally ticking everything off your to-do list.
43. Eating a really tasty meal and being told it was low in calories.
44. Reading through the “what happened last night?” texts whilst hungover.
45. Thinking about someone all day and then receiving an unexpected text off them.
46. Giving up your seat on the bus for an old person or a pregnant lady.
47. Realising that your siblings are your friends for life. They will always have your back.
48. Managing to remove your skinny jeans sexily.
49. Receiving flowers.
50. Someone saying “That’s my girl” about you.
51. Reading a really good blog. (Ahem.)
52. Someone uploading a photo of the two of you which you didn’t know existed.
53. Hanging your washing on the line outside and it smelling of sunshine when you bring it in.
54. Barbecues, water fights, sunbathing, holidays, SUMMER.
55. Doing a good deed, for no other reason except you wanted to do it. Giving a homeless person spare change, picking a dropped item off the floor and returning it to the person who dropped it, sending an email to a company about the good customer service you received. Whatever it is, do it.
56. Someone playing with your hair.
57. Crumpets. Enough said.
58. Freshly washed bedding. In fact, freshly washed bedding teamed with clean pyjamas and you’re onto a winner.
59. Learning something new.
60. Breakfast in bed. Especially when someone else has made it.
61. Waking up after a night of heavy drinking with absolutely no hangover.
62. Liking your friend's selfie when you know it's taken her a lot of courage to post it. Go 'ed, girl, you look fucking incredible.
63. Having sex with someone you’ve liked for ages. Really. Good. Sex.
64. Pulling on your sweats after a day of wearing skinny jeans.
65. Stroking your cat and making him purr.
66. Hot chocolate, snowball fights, late night shopping, wrapping presents, writing cards, CHRISTMAS.
67. Seeing children all excited on a school trip.
68. Being comfortable when silent with someone.
69. The first time you drive a car alone - and live to tell the tale!
70. Laughing until your stomach hurts.
71. Speaking to someone on public transport and genuinely enjoying their company.
72. Long walks in the summer.
73. Pancake Day.
74. Being able to quote your entire way through a film.
75. Listening to music on a long journey.
76. Waking up and realising you’ve had just the right amount of sleep.
77. Saying 'good morning' to people you see at the same time every day - the postman, the milkman, the lady walking her dog.
78. Dancing and laughing with your friends and not checking your phone for hours.
79. Visiting your grandparents and leaving almost two stone heavier.

And if that wasn't enough for you, here are some visual reasons to be cheerful: (I particularly like the before and after doggy pictures)

 

 

And if that didn't work, this surely will:

Keep smiling, kid. You're doing fine.

The perfect 10.

My words sound better coming from my hands than my mouth. Which is ironic considering the £20,000 spent on my higher education in drama, then two years spent at drama school after that! Perhaps it’s because you can start writing and delete it if you don’t like it. You can’t do that with words. Once spoken, they’re hard to erase.

The last month has been a strange one. My mum, a wise old lady from Galway/Warrington, said she thinks I’ve gone from a girl to a woman. I, however, feel I’ve backtracked and gone from a girl to a toddler – I need food on tap, I can’t make it through the day without a well timed nap and I was far more excited for this Christmas than I thought I would be.

As well as having to deal with losing the baby, my dad walking out and being in a car crash, I’ve also had to answer some very small minded questions. So, rather than verbally answer everyone’s questions, I thought I would write down the answers. You know what I’m like. Let’s address the first point. One which, sadly, I’ve come across a few times.

“It wasn’t a real baby. A proper baby. You didn’t bring that baby home with you.” No, and believe me, I thank my lucky stars that I didn’t. Any woman who brings a baby home from hospital and takes photos of her holding her baby and baths, feeds, clothes and loves her baby – then for it to be taken away… That is torture. I honestly don’t know how they would continue to wake up and get out of bed in a morning. Any woman who has been through this and continues about her daily life is a hero in my eyes.

But why are people so quick to dismiss a lost baby? Is it because the outside world cannot see a baby, therefore no baby exists? Does the same go for arthritis, diabetes, mental health problems? Isn’t that a frightening, quintessentially British attitude to take? If you can’t see it, it can’t cause you pain.

But I did see my baby. I saw him several times in fact – healthy, happy, wriggling around on a screen. Waving to me, almost mocking me: “You took your pill every single day, but look, look at me!” At no point did I see a frail looking baby. At no point did I see a hushed look across the room between the sonographer and the nurse. There was no tilting of the screen, no furiously scribbled notes, no lack of eye contact. There was nothing to suggest that my world was going to fall apart in a matter of days. That from the Saturday morning when I was doing overtime in work, I would arrive healthy and happy, listening to music as I ploughed through my work – and on the Sunday night, I would have spent hours in hospital and the only thing to wipe away my tears was a leaflet called Miscarriages and Stillbirth.

I saw a heartbeat. I saw a person. And the saddest part, the cruellest part, was that he was still there. In my tummy. Still there, just fast asleep.

So. What happens next?

I lay there in bed and I accepted the continuous offer of tea from people who didn’t really know what else to say or do. (What is it about tea? Why do we think that drinking a cup of murky brown water will help us to feel better? I discovered it isn’t the actual tea itself that we’re offering, but the tea is a symbol of comfort – to those making it and those drinking it. In times of trouble, in times of desperation, people will switch the kettle on and bury their hands into the biscuit tin. Why? There’s something oddly comforting about a cup of tea and a chat. Trust me. I drank so much tea in the month that followed, I started to turn into a teabag.)

I lay there and for the first time in my life, I didn’t actually know what I was going to do next. I’ve always been a girl with a plan. Even when I knew I would be facing bringing this child up single handedly, I was still a girl with a plan - plans that extended for the next few decades. Lovely plans. Heart warming plans. It was unexpected, but I'm ballsy and I always have a plan. Admittedly, the plan doesn’t always turn out how I initially thought, but at least there was something. This time, I couldn’t see what was coming next. I knew I had several hospital appointments to follow. I knew I had to have an operation. I knew there would be conversations that I didn’t want to have. But what about after that? What about when the hours turn to days, the days turn to weeks, the weeks turn to months… what do you do?

I could sit here and list all the reasons why it was unfair that my baby was taken. Having to endure the seemingly endless list of women announcing their pregnancies to the world. Having to paint a smile on my face and pretend I was happy. Having to listen to everyone at work saying "isn't she lucky?" and thinking yes, more than you know. Yes, I was pleased for them, but the jealousy was eating me alive. Why do you get to take your baby home and I don't? I would think as I hugged them and whispered congratulations in their ear, then rush off to the toilet and sob into my hands until I could no longer breathe. The world can be a very cruel place.

When I see clips on the news about mothers such as poor Baby P's, it literally makes my blood run cold. Why me? What did I do wrong that she didn't? She had a beautiful baby and she didn't deserve him. Questions buzzed round my head day in, day out. Was it because I had mayonnaise with my chips during a pub tea with the girls? Was it because I'd been blind drunk at my friend's wedding? (without knowing I was pregnant, may I add) Was it because I'd done something bad which karma was taking for her own? 

The short answer is no. There was no reason. All of the very kind faced nurses would smile at me, squeeze my hand and say, "It's just one of those things". Really? I didn't believe that for a second. If I wasn't meant to have that baby, I wouldn't have fallen pregnant. The feeling crushed me. It was like I was being eaten from the outside in. My body had failed me. A woman is supposed to produce babies. I couldn't even do that. Most nights, I cried myself to sleep, my pillow sodden from my tears. I would wake up feeling hungover, despite not drinking for months, simply due to exhaustion. 

In a situation like mine, it's easy to blame science, even God. Growing up in a very Catholic family has left me simply accepting that God exists because I've never questioned otherwise. Don't get me wrong, I'm not overly religious - sex before marriage, child outside of wedlock etc - but the thought of a presence being there, watching over us somehow comforts me. Blaming statistics was much easier. Less than one percent chance of conceiving? I'd done it. Contraception was ninety seven percent effective? I was in the three percent. Out of all miscarriages, those after twelve weeks are just one percent. One teeny tiny percentage. But it happened to me. The statistics had been against me from the start and it angered me. I've never been an angry person but suddenly, I found myself throwing things, smashing things, kicking everything in sight.

I was a broken woman. 

So, where do you go from there? Do I move away to a town where no one knows me? Do I get a new job where I can start afresh? How do you move on from something like that?

The truth is, you don’t. Not really. I mean, it gets easier. People will succumb to the inevitable head tilt and ask me how I’m doing and they’ll press their lips together while they await my answer – and gradually, I won’t be completely lying when I say that I’m doing alright. Just alright. Not 100%. But alright.

My counsellor says we have an image in our heads of us needing to be a ten out of ten at all times. She says it’s okay to be less than that. I reckon I’m about an eight or a nine now. This has been helped by liberal amounts of alcohol, a great workforce and the best friends and family a girl could ask for. Naively, I used to think the perfect 10 referred to a woman's size. It isn't that at all. It's about a woman's happiness.

For a long while, I suspected I would be stuck at two or three forever. Gradually, I moved to a five. And I’m quite pleased to be where I’m at now. In all honesty, I doubt I’ll be a ten ever again in my life – losing this baby has taken something out of my heart which I don’t think can be replaced. My arms ached to hold my child for weeks afterwards (but I thought it was from all the blood tests) Talking about what had happened gave me comfort. Some people could not accept this. For some bizarre reason, they thought I should have taken a vow of silence. Pretended it hadn't happened. Gone about my daily business within a day or two. It's so sad that the society we live in will accept photographs of Kim Kardashian's greased up naked body, yet someone mentions the word miscarriage and everyone looks away.

For each person who has said - or thought - something along these lines, you're a cunt. You were born a cunt, raised by cunts and quite frankly, will always be one. 

A child who loses its parents is an orphan. There is no word for a woman who has lost a child. The saddest moment of the entire saga was the day before my operation when I was signing the consent forms to go under a general anaesthetic. There was a section which I pushed towards my mum, who was sat in the room with me at the time.

“You need to sign it,” I said, pushing it towards her.

“Where does it say that?” the doctor asked, confused.

“There,” I pointed out. “It says mother’s signature needed.”

“No, Emily,” the doctor said, quietly, pushing it back towards me. “It’s talking about you.”

In the weeks that followed the miscarriage, truth be told, I needed something to distract me. Writing is what I would normally do, but I had completely lost all inspiration. I lost count of the amount of times, I would pick up my laptop and twenty minutes later, I would be a sobbing wreck with a zero word count. Exercise was out of the question for six weeks after my operation. I’d bought and wrapped all my Christmas presents. I’d painted my nails. My bedroom was immaculate. I was bored.

So, now we’ve reached a point in the blog where I set out my little begging mission. I need your help. I’ve registered myself for the Great Manchester Run in May 2015, where I’ll be raising money for Tommy’s, the baby charity. They’re a great charity and their work investigates why miscarriages happen and what can be done to prevent future miscarriages and baby loss. Not only is it something I can work towards, something to give me focus and get my backside out of bed on bad days, but the run also happens to take place on my due date. If that wasn’t a sign for me to do this, I don’t know what was.

I’ve put down £500 as my target and although it’s a hell of a lot of money, I’d like to think I can make it. This is the last time I’ll talk about what happened. Talking about it comforts me, but it hurts too and I am determined that 2015 will be a happy year. I won’t be bombarding your Facebook timelines with pleas for donations. I won’t be begging for retweets on Twitter. I’ll simply ask you here, now, for your help. Just one pound is all I ask. My last blog entry had over 50,000 views. If every person who reads my blog donates one pound, I’m sure I’ll hit my target. (Plus I sponsor everyone for everything - sometimes even when people don't actually DO the task they want sponsors for!) I want to turn a negative into a positive and I can't think of a better way than by giving money to people who really need it.

Wouldn't it be lovely if every time a woman makes a baby, she gets to take the baby home with her? Every time. Without fail. Maybe one day it will be like that.

This is the link: https://www.justgiving.com/Emily-Chriscoli

For everyone asking, I'm genuinely okay. Honestly. I'm looking forward to the New Year. I've made one resolution and it's to be happy. It's taken over a year for me to realise that my happiness doesn't depend on anyone else other than me. A person cannot be happy with anyone if the person is not happy with themselves. Whether that's from holidays, writing, eating, dating, drinking wine, exercising, chatting, reading, having sex, driving, learning - I will spend my entire year smiling and laughing.

Oh, and I want to do something new every month. I've signed myself up for self defence classes starting in January. After being mugged twice, it's a skill I could do with, plus I think it will give me some much needed self confidence. I've already got plans for speed dating, dance lessons, scuba diving and rock climbing. If anyone has any suggestions, I'm all ears.

One last thought before I pop off to bed – I’ve had lots of words of wisdom over the last few weeks. I’ve stored them up and kept them in my head so even if I didn’t verbally respond – I was like a zombie – I do appreciate everyone’s kind words. The best words, however, came from my sister. It’s something I think about last thing at night before I go to sleep:

“Your first baby is such an exciting time. It’s a lifetime of firsts. First positive pregnancy test, first scan, first kick… The list is endless. And it’s cruel that you’ve been robbed of this. But think of it this way – you get to do it all again one day. You get to do the first everything for a second time. How special is that.”

Happy New Year, folks. Make it count.

Letter to my unborn baby

Edit: I wrote and published this blog when I was eight weeks pregnant. Sadly, I miscarried at thirteen weeks. You rather naively assume that once you get to twelve weeks, everything will be fine. That's not always the case.

"Hello, little one.

We’ve been through so much together and I don’t even know what you look like. You were so unexpected. Completely and utterly out of the blue. But you’re here, you’re mine, and I’m going to keep this blog throughout my pregnancy so that when you’re screaming til you’re red in the face and it’s four o’clock in the morning and my eyes are being held open by matchsticks, I’ll remember that you are my favourite oopsy daisy ever.

I found out one morning while I was getting ready for work, doing a test on a complete whim. I’d felt funny for days, but all the symptoms were quickly dismissed. I was a bridesmaid at Auntie Helen’s wedding and I had far too much to be doing than to be thinking about anything that wasn’t wedding related. My stomach was hurting, my lower back ached, I couldn’t work up an appetite for my main course, I was almost too hungover the next day, trying not to throw up in the back of the car on the way home…

It was the suggestion off someone else which made me do it: “you’re probably not, but do a test just in case.” So I did. I had one stashed in my girly box under my bed so I read the back of the packet and it said to do it first thing in the morning.

I was brushing my teeth when I cast my eye on one bright pink line showing up. One line means the test is negative, right? Great. Just as I thought. As I was rinsing my mouth with mouthwash, out of the corner of my eye, I could see there was a second line already starting to form, growing darker and darker as if it was screaming out to me: SURPRISE!

Jesus Christ. Two lines could mean negative, couldn’t it? I mean… it doesn’t guarantee that it’s a positive. Maybe I did the test wrong (although how hard is it to pee on a stick?) Maybe the test is a dud. Sitting on the edge of the bath, I quickly googled “false positive pregnancy tests” – yes, I had my phone in the bathroom with me. It turns out it’s almost near to impossible to achieve a false positive and the brand of test I had used was one of the most respected and therefore, likely to be accurate. Regardless of this, my sister went out and bought some more pregnancy tests and they all came back positive.

So, no. They couldn't all be wrong. I was very much pregnant.

Only here’s the strangest part of all – six months previously, I’d been back and forth to the gynaecologist with various problems and I’d been told that my chances of conceiving naturally would be less than 1% and my chances of carrying a baby full term were pretty much 0%. So, combining that with taking my pill, how the hell had this happened?

I wandered back to my bedroom to get dressed and it was as if I was a zombie. People stopped me and spoke to me on the landing, asked me questions whilst passing me on the stairs. I don’t think I even replied. How on earth I drove to work that morning, I’ll never know. I ran a red light without realising it. I pulled out on someone at a roundabout. It was only when I was squinting that I realised it was pouring down and I didn’t have my wipers on. I was a mess.

It stayed that way for a few days. I was wandering around work like a lost puppy. I didn’t even realise that I hadn’t taken my break until someone pulled me up on it. Concentration was somewhat impossible.

Telling your dad was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. We were both frightened but his mind was made up and I knew from that moment onwards, it was you and me against the world. Me and Grandma are putting together an album full of pictures of him which we'll keep somewhere safe.
I’ll tell you all about him one day. 

We had some wonderful times together and at least I can say that at one point, we were madly in love with each other – but I love you more and I couldn't face a future without you.

I’m not going to say that I didn’t consider the alternative. Of course I did. I wrote down a list of reasons why I should keep you. I also wrote down a list of reasons for why I shouldn’t. It was only as I tore the paper into pieces that I realised I already knew my answer.

It’s been so, so hard in the last few months, especially doing this on my own. I’ve been in and out of hospital – you little tinker – and some days, I’ve felt so sick that I can barely get out of bed, but I’ve been working as much overtime as I possibly can, doing fifty and sixty hour weeks to make enough money for us to have a nice home together. It’s been tiring, quite scary and often a little bewildering, but I’ve had an army of people around me day by day.

I’m not stupid. I know this will be hard. It will be ten times harder than I can possibly begin to imagine. And maybe even ten times harder than that. But I couldn’t not do it. You were unexpected, unplanned, even unbelievable. But you were here.

  

I’ve never done anything the way it was meant to be done. And you are no different. I might be a bit crap at first, but you’ll have to trust me on this one and just go with the flow, because I’ve never done this before.

I can’t promise you the perfect life with a mum, a dad, a house and a dog, but I can promise that you will be loved, looked after and well cared for. You’re coming into a family who are always laughing. Grandma’s house is loud and busy but it’s very welcoming. Your five older cousins will play with you, steal your food from you – maybe even tell tales on you. It’s going to be madness, but you’ll get used to it.

I’m not a very good driver, but I promise to be safe when you’re around. I get cranky when I’ve not had a lot of sleep, but I promise to stifle my yawns and drink a litre of coffee so I’m not cranky with you. I’ve been known to miss meals and fill myself up with chocolate, but I promise to eat all the vegetables in the world to help you grow. I’m quite selfish with the TV remote, but I promise to switch the TV off and spend hours playing with you and reading to you.

Welcome to the world, baby Chriscoli.

It’s just you and me, kid."

An angel with the Book of Life wrote down my baby's birth. Then whispered, as she closed the book, "too beautiful for Earth".
<3