Over the past few days, I’ve finally started to accept that in two weeks time, I shall be joining the great unwashed of London and returning to work. I’ll be bitching about people releasing bodily functions in my vicinity, spending a fortune in Pret a Manger once again, and having to listen to that lunatic at Oxford Circus yell into his microphone “Are you a sinner or a winner?” every frigging day. I’ll be returning to internal meeting central, a political hotbed, and impromptu Michael Jackson performances. In a very odd way I’m actually looking forward to it, I just wish I could get the sickening feeling out of my stomach that I get every time I look at the bambino and imagine not seeing her cheeky face all day long. Christmas and New Year are traditionally times of change, so as well as returning to work (BOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! HISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!), I have also started to accept that I need to give up that one last breast feed. I actually loved still breastfeeding her in the morning but recently she’s taken to making my nipples feel like they’ve been rubbed on a cheese grater. Much as I love the closeness, it was convenient to be able to stick her on the boob and lean back against the pillows in a half asleep fog, but she’s killing those sleepy feeds by trying to take my nipple half way across the room with her when she decides that she just HAS to know what her dad is doing. Suddenly venturing down to the cold kitchen for a few minutes seems like a more favourable prospect…

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