I was reading through some old diaries the other week (actually looking for some photos of my Dad, but that’s another matter) and I started to read through a few of my entries. I used to keep a daily journal – it was part of the preparation for my Masters degree – and I so I have a whole stack of Collins desk diaries, day-per-page, filled with line upon line of neat black writing. (Pen of choice: Bic Medium biro in black. There is no other that competes. Apart from when the pen starts to bobble and splot ink blobs onto the page, but that’s usually only after you’ve been going for an hour or so.)
Anyway, reading through my memoirs-to-be (ha!) it struck me that the whole trying for a baby episode of my life took up seven whole years. Seven. At the time, in my late twenties and early thirties, when I should really have been enjoying my social life and focusing on all of the amazing opportunities that were coming my way, all I could think about was having a baby and why it wasn’t happening for me. Not that I’m trying to downplay the emotional hardship of trying – and failing – to conceive; it just suddenly hit home quite how soul-destroying and disruptive that part of my life was. Although thankfully, at the same time as manic-shagging and weeing on ovulation sticks like some sort of barmpot scientist, I was throwing myself into starting up and growing this website. A Model Recommends. Which was a brilliant distraction ...