I’ve been away. I know. I have noticed. Thank you for your patience during the disruption to your service.

I’ve been terribly ill, you see. Sick, so sick. Morning sickness it is. Was. It’s over now – sort of. I still get the odd billowing wave of it, bobbing up around my solar plexus but I’m no longer a drooping, greyish figure haunting my house. Urgh. I hate – hate – people who say that horrid thing to pregnant women – “You’re not ill, you’re pregnant.” Really? Because it feels an awful lot like norovirus to me.

Anyway I feel better now. And I had my 12 week scan – just one spratling, thank god, in the right place – and so I can start moaning on about being pregnant again. The other thing that’s happened is that I’ve finished putting together that book I was talking about. In the end it really wasn’t very much work, it was just impossible to do anything feeling so sick. Ten minutes typing, 1 hour lying down, ten minutes typing, one hour lying down. SO SO SICK. I got some pills off my doctor, The Beast, in the end. I just couldn’t take it anymore. But they only took the edge off, it wasn’t like I was bouncing out of bed in the mornings.

I honestly am still reeling from how awful it was. It just wasn’t that bad with Kitty. And I wasn’t that tired either. But for the last six weeks I’ve been wiped out, asleep from 1-3pm every day. Wiped out like chalk on a blackboard. And then wake up feeling like shit. Poor old Kitty. Or rather lucky Kitty – she has eaten biscuits and watched telly solidly for six weeks. But thank god for telly. Thank GOD! What would we have done without it.

I am trying not to think too much about being plunged back into a babyhood. I am trying to look on the bright side. I must have learned something since Kitty was born. It surely won’t be as awful as it was. I don’t want to go mad again, I really don’t.

It has to be different this time – for one, Kitty was brought home to a house that didn’t have any children in it. It was a grown-up house, really quite spooky in a lot of ways – silent and strange and unfit for a baby. These days it has a chattering lunatic nearly-two-year-old in it, dropping crumbs and kicking balloons and watching telly and running from one end of the house to the other for no reason other than youthful high spirits. The changing mat now has its own room, rather than squatting on the kitchen table. The kitchen extension means that everyone can slob about in the kitchen, rather than me being at the stove, running out every ten seconds into the living room to make sure everyone’s okay.

And maybe I’m different. Broken in, broken down. Resigned. Institutionalised. Used to that special sort of monotony you get with small children, so intense particularly in babies. My expectations from life are different now. I am surrendered, like onions.

Surrendering onions is a slow but pleasing task. It is what you do if you want very soft, aromatic, almost creamy onions (for an onion gravy for example, or a tangle alongside some sausages) and the trick is to cook them for a good 1.5-2 hours on the lowest heat on your smallest available burner.

You slice them into rings, reasonably thinly and scatter them in a pan with some oil – and butter, if you like. Then sprinkle over a generous pinch of salt and put a lid on and leave them. Do not turn the heat up and do not poke them about too much. Take the lid off if at any point the onions start to even think about sizzling. Towards the end of the cooking time, the onions will almost in a matter of seconds collapse into themselves – they will surrender. I can’t help but think of motherhood like that. But not in a bad way.