The sky fell in on Chicken Licken

Carmella sadly had to be put to sleep last night. A strange euphemism but true in this case, with a large dose of anaesthetic, to remove her from what appeared to be suffering. I'm gutted. Meanwhile our remaining chicken, Margie, looks very lonely today. Maybe we will get some more, maybe not.

The secret is now out - we're moving to Birmingham. I'm leaving my job, my other half is leaving his job as a doctor, we're leaving our house and moving up there.

Blame MMC. Mutilating Medical Careers; Major Medical Cockup; whatever you want to call it. Thanks Patsy. Thanks Tony. Thanks BMA for sod all. Thanks all the other doctors who haven't stood up for their junior colleagues.

Needless to say, this upheaval pales into insignificance compared to our chicken loss. :(

Five days between postings isn't good enough, even if I have very few fans. But I have a secret that can't yet be told - ooh, seven magpies - even if it's total paranoia on my part to think anyone I know might read my blog. Let's just say brum brum. All will become clear very soon.

Meanwhile, back to daily life, I've done two medical interview sessions this week. It's a very small sample size to base any views on, but I can't help feeling that the UKCAT as a primary selector for medical applicants is not necessarily picking out the right people. But two sessions is not enough to make any judgements and in any case, this is no longer my business. It is hard to step back. This time around though, having watched other half go through junior medicine, I no longer feel that a rejection is such a bad thing - it seems to me that I'm simply saving them from a life of misery that none of them can currently comprehend.

It's my sister's 17th birthday today. Happy Birthday Irial!! I have two sisters, well, technically half sisters, but since two halves make a whole let's just split the difference.

As you can tell, I am not necessarily entirely of this planet today. But I did hear today of at least one person who reads my blog and even enjoys it, so I must continue and with renewed vigour, following a week of thinking, why bother. The really weird thing about blogs is (a) why does it matter whether anyone is reading it or not and (b) if it doesn't matter, then why does it bother me not knowing if anyone reads it? and also (c) why DOES anyone write a blog? In my case it was partly to give vent to all the thoughts that churn around with nowhere to go, but recently I've decided to stop having thoughts, and also, so much of what I think about would compromise my job or the people I meet if I actually wrote about it. Well, that's assuming of course, that anyone reads it. Oh dear, we're back to square one.

I read an academic paper today on which two of the authors were called Squares. Really. As in S Squares and D Squares. Hilarious. I hope they haven't named any of their children after mathematical equations.

Meanwhile, my sister, my lovely glamorous sister, is shown in the picture above. Ain't she gorgeous?

Travelling by public transport this week has only been surpassed by the misery of travelling by car, especially if you were on the M11 yesterday. The camaraderie created by train delays caused by freak weather is amazing though, particularly on my line, where the modus operandi is something akin to being stuck in a carriage with several Jade Goody-like characters. All using their phones.

Also, rather excitingly, I travelled almost the entire length of the Metropolitan line today, missing only the very last stop. Actually, it was not at all exciting. It was slow and cold and late and there was a horrible stinky fish smell, the schoolkids were screaming and stuffing their faces with crisps and I was half a bloody hour late for my talk at Watford Girls' Grammar School. They were very lovely and very forgiving, but goddamit, I hate being late for things. It also meant I didn't get to show them my gorgeous presentation which I have slaved over for a week and which culminated in the most insane picture of Tony Blair. Boo.

Afraid of the dark

January blues. Feel down although not as bad as poor old Shiny Happy Person for whom I feel depths of sorrow and realise how hard it must be to feel that way when nobody except other sufferers really knows what it means. Feeling for you SHP from across the cyber waves. Waves?

No, mine is more a generalised boredom with what life offers at the moment, which is ironic because for one reason or another, things are about to get unpredictable and potentially exciting. But this is all waiting in the wings for now and I'm being impatient. Something else that is hiding in the wings is the inevitable 'moving house' situation, which as partner to a junior doctor, is one of those annoying side effects of a career in medicine. If I never have to pack and unpack again after this year I'd be a happy woman, although clearly that will not be the case.

It's just January, isn't it? January is shit, whatever way you look at it. Getting up in the pitch dark, and coming home in the only-just-less-than-pitch dark is not right; it's not good for our little souls. And the chickens aren't that keen either.

Blimmin' 'eck, I forgot to make any resolutions

I did, you know. I didn't even think about those stupid old new year's resolutions until I heard something on the radio tonight about them. Fancy that. I must say it's a bloody relief not to have gone through that idiotic, annoying process, where you rack your brains for some habit to change, and then on finding one, fail to do so.

But I suppose if I was going to do anything differently, I'd try to be a bit more kind in situations don't lend themselves to it. That's the kind of thing I aspire to. I must try to remember this thought next time I'm stuck behind a TWATTY20MPHDRIVER on the A130. All we need is love. And a lot of patience. And a recollection of what could happen when you overtake twatty20mphdriver. Oh, and, don't forget the horrific fatal accident you passed on the M40 on new year's day. This is what can happen. In fact, my resolution might be to stop driving, which in turn means giving up work. C'est la vie.

Cardboard coffin and talk of boffins

RIP Joan Lydia Harvey, buried yesterday in a cardboard coffin in a woodland burial site in Scotland. Paying tribute to her were an assortment of family members and past friends and lovers, reminding us of her extraordinary life during which she knew (amongst many others) the likes of Francis Crick and Fred Hoyle. Not only did she know them but they regularly visited her humanist 'bunfights' in the caravan in which she lived with my mother and my mum's two siblings in Cambridgeshire. Joan also rode a motorbike well into her sixties, travelled far and wide, often alone, in her 'Ambly' (a converted 1950s ambulance), attended the very first anti-nuclear demonstrations in the 50s, brought up three children practically by herself and with a great deal of imagination financially, and influenced a great number of people on the issues of cooperative living, humanism, pacifism and anarchism. As I've implied before, her and I had a difficult relationship, but everyone, myself included, respected and admired her resolution and determination to stick with her principles. She did not suffer fools gladly - nor people with whom she saw no point in befriending - but she was perhaps the most honest person I'll ever have known. Bon voyage, Joan.