So anyway, BlogHer 08

1. I am going
2. I am reading in Mrs Kennedy's Friday-night keynote
3. I get to meet an awful lot of fucking amazing people
4. I'm going to California, where I've wanted to go for 20 years
5. none of the above has sunk in.

It's in a week! And I haven't written anything about it because it's shaping up to be one of the best weekends of my life so far, and I can't believe it's really going to happen.

Since Esme was born I've been 80% bored out of my mind; lonely; isolated; miserable; stuck. Everyone I know lives at least an hour away. My mother-friends have gone back to their jobs. We have not had a summer in England this year: it won't stop raining and the sky has been mostly dark. I have spent a lot of time indoors, and more time alone than ever before in my life, and I don't really like it. There have been many tears, and many times I thought I was seriously losing the plot. I love my daughter more than anyone or anything else I've ever known, but she is with me all the time and she makes thinking hard. And writing hard. Really hard. And I find that hard in turn.

I miss having a job. I miss having to be somewhere. I miss bringing money into the household. I hate being dependent on Ian. It changes the dynamic of a relationship, from equals to host/parasite. I miss the company of adults and the back-and-forth of quick banter. I miss being busy. Busy doing things for people who ask my opinion and need me to do more than fetch them yet another cup of fruit juice or put their shoes on/take their shoes off for the 100th time that day. I really miss having out-loud conversations. I miss the days when my brain ticked quickly. I miss having interests, and time for them.

There is a rectangle of light in my house that tells me what's going on, makes me laugh, brings other people into my life and keeps my sense of humour alive. Thank fuck for the Internet. Without it I might have to have a television and we all know how I feel about those. I don't have a TV. The stars of my silver screen are the people who write the blogs I read, who make me laugh and cry and keep me sane.

I know it's not British to gush emotionally, but tough shit. Someone recently dismissed my going to Blogher as going to be with my "pretend Internet friends" and I feel the need to defend my corner, because none of my friends are pretend. Even the imaginary ones are very genuine people.

You! Yes, you. Sit up. Thank fuck for you. Because of you, this blog has saved my sanity. I ask you how to cook chicken and you tell me. I confess this parenting lark is boring me rigid and you tell me it's all right to think that, and you suggest things for me to do. I write stupid shit at you and you reply with things that make me - and Ian - fall over laughing at the comments. I show you rat-tailed maggots and you recoil in horror. Sorry about that. You deserve better, and cuter and fluffier. Thank you.

I love England. I love rude people; toast & marmalade; complaining under one's breath; proper tea; woollen clothing; misty mornings with the sound of rooks; village fetes; what's left of the English countryside. But it's been a hard, boring year, and for once I can't wait to get out of this piss-wet country and the inside of my house. Next week this big shiny aeroplane takes me to San Francisco and it's going to be like travelling mysteriously to a parallel universe. I'm going to wake up in a different time zone and have no idea how I got there (my father is kindly sending Ambien in the post to knock me out. Thanks Dad). For a long weekend, I will not be at Esme's beck and call, but in the actual, face-to face company of people I genuinely admire as much as the authors on my bookshelves or the actors in my favourite films. In California, where I've wanted to go for over half my life. It might not even rain. Imagine that.

And instead of writing about it, I've been staring at the Internet saying, softly, "How did this happen? Why is this happening to me?" I've decided it's best not to ask questions, just to go and have a fucking good time.