Part of our holiday was, for me, a journey of self-discovery (as opposed to the journey of sheep-discovery that was required to get to the house we stayed in) (I’m not calling it a holiday cottage, since it was a house by anyone’s standards, and one that you could have fitted two of mine inside). Self-discovery, in my experience, is not much fun, so to be avoided when you’re supposed to be on holiday. Of course, it is also true that on holiday, you get the chance to depart from the norms enough to discover yourself in the first place, but I digress.I am fiercely competative. I didn’t know. Did you already know that? Because I didn’t. I naturally assumed that since I’m not remotely ambitious, I wasn’t competative either, but it’s not true.

Example 1: we played several games on holiday, and I was rubbish at them. I was rubbish at the dictionary game, in which someone picks an obscure word from the dictionary, we all make up a definition, then vote for the most plausible one. You get a point if the majority of people vote for your definition, and you get a point for voting for the correct definition. Everyone else was giving their vote to the funny ones, in order to bestow a point to the originator as a demonstration of their appreciation. I was voting for the most plausible, because I wanted to win.

Example 2: we also played a game called Take Two. It’s a variation on Scrabble, using the pieces but not the board, and it works best with between two and four players. You each take 7 pieces, and attempt to arrange them onto one interlocking grid, using only valid words. As soon as one person had done so, they call, “Take Two”, and everyone takes two more pieces, which can be a lifesaver, or can throw you into complete disarray. The winner is the first to form a complete grid once all the spare pieces have gone. The thing is, skills-wise, it’s completely different to Scrabble. You succeed with being able to arrange your pieces into small words, quickly. I’m rubbish at doing things quickly (and with the meandering pace of life that Daisy and I lead these days, I’m getting worse), and I never use a small word if three large ones will execute the task with an acceptable degree of adequacy. I was dismal at Take Two, and the humiliation was it’s a word game. I have two degrees in English, Kevin should not be able to beat me with ANYTHING that uses Scrabble letters.

Take Two, logically enough, I much preferred when it was one-on-one - the pace of the game was slowed, so I had a little more time to use all my pieces in a 12 letter word. I’m a linguistic show-off who hates to lose.

Risk, when we played it, I enjoyed much more because whilst I didn’t win, playing with Mission Cards means that the winner usually does so suddenly, and I felt like I was doing well right up to the end.

Now I’ve come face to face with this rather unattractive personality trait, I can quite see that it’s always been there. My sister hated me when we were children, because I derived immense satisfaction from beating her into the ground at any competative game we played, and when that didn’t work, I would hit her over the head with my superior vocabulary (the ultimate fall-back of many an older sibling). At school, I developed an intense dislike for a friendly, personable, and fairly attractive boy called Jonathan Thorpe, because he was always, always, always two points ahead of me in class, making him top, and me second. I didn’t want to be second. I wanted all to bow down to the mighty intellect of Ruth, and for as long as he kept doing ever so slightly better than me, nobody would.

I suppose it’s a variation on perfectionism - the idea that if you can’t guarantee to win a game, there’s really no fun in playing it, though where that leaves the poor souls who are supposed to play against me, for the sheer statisfaction of being thrashed, I don’t know. Quite what I’m supposed to do about this alarmingly self-absorbed competative streak… well, I don’t know that either.

I was listening to Woman’s Hour today, and the whole theme started to get me riled. There’s been much media discussion recently about alleged “selfishness” surrounding women who choose to have their children later, or not at all. It’s the word that drives me to distraction - “selfish” creates very distinct connotations, of hard, heartless, unpleasant women, who should a) soften up and become apron-wearing 1950s housewives, before b) having a minimum of two children, preferably twins, to make up for lost time.

The baby boomer women were told they could have it all. They were told that everything men had always had should be theirs, and you can’t go through two literature degrees without absorbing a certain level of feminist feeling. It is absolutely true that nothing should be forbidden me - I have as much as right as Kevin does to a career, to an education, to anything that he can have, in fact.

What they weren’t told was that there aren’t enough hours in the day. If they also want what their mothers had, compromises must be struck. Women shouldn’t have to choose between a family and a career, because men are never asked to make that choice. However, you can’t work a forty hour week in a high-powered office job in the City, and still be standing at the school gates at 3.30pm to ask how school was today. It’s not a philosophical problem, it’s a logistical one. And it’s a problem for women, because we were told we could have the intellectual, professional, financial liberation that men had, without giving anything up in return. Funny enough, most men didn’t want the liberation of staying at home with the children, and being men, if they did, they’d have taken it, I’m sure.

And that’s why the baby boomer women look back with such regret - those who gave up work to bring up their children regret the loss of their careers. Those who, in one sense or another, gave up their children to pursue their careers regret the loss of their children.

I feel much more fortunate than that. I always knew I couldn’t have it all. If I wanted to be the sort of mum I instinctively felt that children need, some or all of my career aspirations would have to be compromised. It wasn’t a shock, it wasn’t a disappointment, it was a perfectly reasonable decision-making process.

This, the staying at home, the slightly constrained financial situation, the fantastically close relationship to my daughter, the spontaneous trips to the park, the hours I’ve spent sitting with my Grandma, this is the package I chose for myself. I had all the information, and the choice was an informed one. I have no regrets.

I also think I have more confidence in myself than the baby boomers did - or maybe the options are more flexible now. In either case, I believe that I am perfectly capable of embarking on a new career, in whatever I like, if and when the fancy takes me. I am intelligent, well-educated, and of ever broadening experience. I can do whatever I like.

Feminism gave women choices, in places where men have never had to choose. Making that choice can be heart-wrenching, so don’t you DARE call me selfish. Don’t you DARE suggest that I should have had my children sooner, or should have gone back to work after I had them, or should have had more, or should have had fewer. I made my choices, and other women make theirs - for pity’s sake, leave them alone.

I don’t know the song, but one of my friends used to sing along to her doorbell (before they changed the sound to the barking dog noise).

The world is positively miniscule. Kevin has discovered that his great great great great grandmother was a Jump, which would be worrying if she was a Lancashire Jump, but the connection with the West Derby Jumps is so ancient as to scarcely be relevant (in case anyone thought that 200 years didn’t already put the relationship firmly in the irrelevant category). Still, it’s an unusual name, and a protestant name at that, so we were a little surprised.

The size of the world has also been brought into question by the fact that my aforementioned doorbell-accompanying friend today met my first cousin once removed on my father’s side, or, as we usually call him, Our Phil^*. Phil is an area something or other (they used to be called Superintendants, but some time after I drifted out of the denomination into the murky world of the housechurch movement, and churches that were all too often called “Something or Other Christian Fellowship”, they restructured, and I’ve no idea what he does. The evidence would suggest that he still uses Superintendent as a point of reference to counteract the blank looks.) in the Baptist Union, which means that he turns up at Baptist Churches as guest preacher, authority figure, shoulder to cry on, etc etc, and to celebrate high days and holidays. Our local Baptist church is celebrating such a high-day/holiday at the moment (a centenary), and so there was a comparing of notes between my astute friend, who guessed that there must be some relationship between us, and my distant cousin.

On one level, I’m quite gratified - much depends on tone of voice and levels of irony, but since I’m told he said, “Oh yes, Our Ruth^* - the clever one,” I’m taking it as a compliment. Two tiny degrees, that’s all, nothing to brag about, but thank you.

On another, these things always unnerve me a little. I don’t have huge secrets to protect, when my different worlds collide - plenty of people do, I’m sure - but it just seems very odd, that Tess spent some minutes, this morning, talking to a member of my family, who actually knows me hardly at all, and rarely sees me outside of Christmas. There’s always Christmas, and in a funny way, most of the family rather value the fact that we don’t lose touch all together, because we always go to my Grandma’s at Christmas. But in another, it’s a bit farcical, because we know so little about each other, the need to hold onto that connection is… odd.

An example: before he went to Bible college, Phil worked at Camel Lairds. I’ve always known this, but I only learned today that he did electrical type stuff there - for all I knew he could have been an accountant, or a spot welder. I think I had an idea he wore a suit, so maybe not a spot welder. Similarly, our Will does something in computers - I don’t know what, or for whom, or at what level. Our Tim works for BT, and always has, but I don’t know what he does. And all they know about me is that she’s the clever one - went to University, you know.

I value my family pretty highly. Maybe I ought to speak to some of them.

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* It is not unique to Liverpool families, but it is a particularly defining feature of them, that all family members, however distant or infrequently seen, are referred to as “ours” at all times. I mean, Aunty Ermintrude or Uncle Joshua^* would be addressed as such, but anyone who could be described as a sibling or a cousin of any description, as in this case, would always be described in such terms of ownership. If I just said “Phil”, family members would say, “Phil Who?”, and only give me the flicker of recognition when I gave up and replied, “You know - Our Phil.” He, I have not the faintest shadow of a doubt, refers to me as “Our Ruth,” on such rare occasions as he refers to me at all. And since I’m not a big name in the Baptist Union, that’s probably less often than the other way around.

* I don’t have an Aunty Ermintrude, or an Uncle Joshua. They were merely examples.

Not Daisy, you understand - me.

I’ve joined the ranks of the hippy baby-wearers, which one could argue is missing the boat rather, considering she’s over sixteen months old.

I always rather saw myself as a baby-wearer, to be honest, and I did it a bit, but with a nice, modern “baby-carrier” rather than an old-fashioned sling, and she seemed to out-grow it far too quickly. It’s only now, as she’s actually walking, that I’ve come to the conclusion that I need to revisit the concept.

She can walk, of course, but she’s still very little, and there are plenty of times when I need to hold her, either to keep her pinned in one place, or because she’s gotten too tired and started falling over lots. Or because I need to DO things, and she’s having a Scream When Mummy Leaves The Room phase. I regularly carry her upstairs on one hip, with a basket of laundry on the other, and it doesn’t really work very well.

Well, yesterday, I managed to make an old-fashioned baby sling out of a bed sheet, as per these instructions (it’s a long page, look around half-way down), and I am absolutely delighted. It spreads her weight so much more evenly than holding her onto my hip with my arm, and I’m slightly stunned as to how stable and secure she seems - and when I get it wrong, she feels unsteady, and makes her insecurity known in no uncertain terms. And the great thing is that it cost me nothing - I had a flat double sheet in the airing cupboard, and I used that.

Of course, once you start using the web to research baby-wearing (and what an appalling expression!), you discover that you’ve tripped into a world of extended breast-feeding, co-sleeping, “attachment parenting” (and again I say, what an appalling expression!) hippies, with whom I really don’t see myself identifying particularly. But I shall fight for my right to nick their ideas without wearing their dodgy clothes, massive glasses, and greasy hair.

The problem is, I’m not very. Creative, that is. I have no actual imagination. I can do the mechanics of certain creative activities, but it’s not really creating, properly, is it? Not if I’ve got nothing to say.

I can’t draw, for the life of me. I don’t have many regrets about that - I had a very foolish art teacher, at school, who tried to coerce me into taking art GCSE, but he clearly had a stronger opinion of my talent in that area than I did, because I never even considered it. It doesn’t matter, because if I could draw, I still wouldn’t know what to draw.

I am broadly musical. I play viola, for the benefit of anyone who didn’t know that. I don’t currently play very often, though, and consequently the last time I got it out (last week, for the first time in months) I didn’t think I played it very well. In any case, I stumbled with the same dilemma as playing for pleasure has always given me - I couldn’t think of a single bloomin’ tune to play. I play mostly by ear - it’s been so many years since I tried to play actual music, I doubt I could remember how - a side effect of which is that I don’t have reams of sheet music to look to for inspiration. I have the mechanics, but no inspiration.

The only really creative thing that I think I can do is write, but that’s fraught with the same problems. I can string a sentence together. On my day, I can produce a pretty impressive sentence (Aside: an ex-colleague of mine once congratulated me on being the only person she knew who could use “disinclined” in a sentence, without embarrassment. I don’t know if that’s really a good thing.). The problem is (have you spotted the theme yet?) I have nothing to say!!! The use of three exclamation marks in a row may undermine my point, here, but I’m leaving them in.

I have nothing to say. I can, when I’m concentrating, frame a half-decent photograph, but I lack inspiration. I’m bored of taking pictures of the Palm House. Do you know how many pictures of the Palm House Kevin and I have taken, since we bought the camera? Ninety-four. Ninety-four pictures of the Palm House in the sun, in the fog, in the dark, at dawn, at dusk, in the autumn… We’ve never managed the Palm House in the snow, but rest assured, as soon as the opportunity arises, we’ll be there. I feel uninspired. I have an urge to create, but I’m all out of inspiration.

You must not, however, run away with the impression that I’m facing some kind of artistic block, that will dissolve with a change in circumstances/weather/hormonal balance. I am permanently uninspired. From childhood onwards, I have been creative enough to need to create, but not sufficiently to be able to produce anything. And I find it, from time to time, very frustrating.

It could be that I actually lack staying power. Maybe I could draw, if only I could live with how long it takes to produce something, and how much longer than that to produce something good. That’s why I like to take photographs - it’s not dependent on my sitting around with a pencil in my hand, for an indefinite period of time.

Equally, it’s why, when taken in this sort of mood, I blog. I express what’s uppermost in the mind, rather than sit down and produce a major work of fiction that would take longer, and require more effort.

I have to ask the question, then: is this site really a very bad thing? It seems all too possible that it is a creative cop-out, that keeps me going, without my having to face up to the real task of producing something that might more closely resemble art.