This is a much shorter version of the post I was thinking about on my way into work this morning. Some of us are still working hard with only days to go until it’s all over and I can take the decorations (which only went up last Saturday) back down.

However, for those of you off over Christmas who own satellite, digital, cable or any other form of TV which has more than 5 channels, in Williams view you can do no better than tune into The Shiny Show (”Give a big cheer for Mr Panner”), The Rolymo Show and Bits and Bobs.

Each has its own surreal quality and the Other Half, William and I will be tuning in frequently. There is also The Bear in the Big Blue House, but that is on the Rat Channel, and whilst William may enjoy it (the Other Half encourages him by “sniffing” in a Bear like fashion) I am trying to wean him away!

In case it all gets way to hectic over the next few days (and I’m yet to buy my sprouts) - have a good holiday season and I’ll meet you back here in 2005.

There are certain things that become apparent as you get older. You realise that in all likelihood you will never become a doctor/racing driver/jump jockey/ballerina, and have to settle for a job in the civil service/NHS administration/financial institution, doing something you neither understand nor give a monkeys about. The penny also begins to drop that Brad Pitt/George Clooney/Morrissey/Alyson Hannigan is not going to ride up on a white charger and whisk you away to a 50 bed luxury townhouse in Lower Manhattan, where you can spend your days working on the political and charitable causes you hold dear and be wined, dined and bedded in a spectacular fashion each evening.

However, on other matters, the penny never drops and nobody ever warns you/takes you to one side and mentions the fact that at a certain point in your life it is no longer a good idea to get drunk. It is even less of a good idea to get drunk at your office party, especially when said party is on a Monday and held 200 miles away from where you will rest your head. Not that I’m talking about myself here. Oh no. I mean, I can handle the champagne, red wine, Baileys and Vodka that is still oozing out of my body. I’m talking about other people.

What was a little bit un-nerving was that despite drinking a pint of squash in one this morning and smelling something like a brewery before my shower, after it the Other Half still handed me the small person to change (and thank you for that dirty nappy William, just what I needed). I think it was his revenge, but I could be wrong…

To my dear friend “Dunk”. I saw this on here and it made me think of you!!

Shame they are sold out until January.

I was rung (in work, I hasten to add) today by one of the Senior Midwives involved in the “What Women Want” Review for Cardiff and Vale NHS Trust. As you may recall, the upshot of this Review will mean that I will no longer be able to have any in-patient maternity care at my local hospital and will have to travel to the horrible District General Hospital in Cardiff instead. Not only this, but they are also closing down the Neo-Natal Unit that William went to when he was born and turning the perfectly good Obstetrics Unit into a Midwife Led Unit, where nobody who is overweight, has a less than perfect pregnancy or was born when there was a vowel in the month will be able to deliver (slight exaggeration, I grant you)!

So, woman rings me to discuss my concerns with the letter of information she has previously supplied. I and PAL the group I’m involved with are obviously starting to annoy her, as she was on the verge of rude. Now, I never accept rudeness. I will badger someone if they start becoming either rude or condescending. I may understand only small parts of the politics of the world around me, but the Health Service I know. And I know it like the back of my hand. She tried her best to fob me off with a couple of acronyms, hoping I would be blinded by science and she could then hide behind her secretary next time I rang. I wasn’t. She began to become obviously flustered as I demanded dates, numbers and questions from the “focus groups” the Trust has supposedly held (even though no-one seems to know who attended or when they took place!). I came off the phone with the promise of more detail, but feel it is unlikely to surface without a fight.

What really annoyed me was the fact that, as a middle manager in the NHS, this woman - who is obviously a midwife by training - had so little time or understanding of the needs of her patient group. It was all about staff retention and recruitment issues for her and not about the needs of a mother and child to both come through the labour and birth safely and, as importantly, bond afterwards. And I never once jumped on the Other Half’s hobby horse of asking at what point fathers views were taken into the equation (Fathers 4 Justice have nothing on Himself when riled).

When I worked as a manager in the NHS I had no clinical training. However after what felt like a life-time in chronic disease management, some of which I spent liaising with patient groups, I hope I at least considered them when looking into service changes. I honestly believe that the management at Cardiff and Vale thought they would be able to “slip” this consultation through and there would be no objections. How wrong they were!

Two things happened after I put the phone down. The fist was a conversation with my boss, during which (laughing) he told me how glad he was that he doesn’t have to worry about dealing with me as an opponent. Apparently I can be quite frightening (who knew?)!

The second was my reflection on a conversation I had with a friend last week. She said that as a group, my friends always thought I would end up in some sort of political role. We went on to discuss national politics and the types of campaigning groups we were involved with in the 80’s and early 90’s. Our discussion led us to the conclusion that local campaigning on single issues had become far more prominent and its importance was growing as the years went on. And that’s when it hit me. I am still a political animal, it’s just I have accepted that to change the world (which has always been my intention) you have to make small cracks in the system first! Today I noticed a couple of cracks - and it felt good!

So, after six months of being at home with William, I came back to work on Monday. I was warned that leaving him with the childminder would make me cry and that I would be phoning her every hour to check on his well-being. Is it wrong that I did neither?

I do get moments of wondering whether being in work is the best thing. After all, my mother gave up work to look after me when I was small, which meant I knew my letters and numbers before I went to school. However, I know that financially I have to work and that without coming in every day and using my skills, I would probably lose my sanity somewhere between a mother and toddler group and making fairy cakes. If you can be at home with a little one, all power to you. It’s just not for me.

We did think about whether the Other Half might stay at home. I have to say that I vetoed that idea fairly early on. Whatever he says, it is a really difficult balance to strike and I think his increasingly greying hair might be all over the carpet within a few weeks. As I explained, being at home isn’t all about watching CBeebies!

Being back in the workplace is slightly odd, however. I have never had so many phone calls that started with such a degree of personal information. Peoples first words to me now are “How’s the baby?” rather than “Where the hell is that report?”! I’m sure it’s just that I’m in my first week back and they are saving the latter comments until I’ve settled back in. It did help doing a couple of meetings during my maternity leave and keeping in touch with not only my colleagues, but also the office gossip! I know if I hadn’t I’d be finding this much harder.

Anyway, must dash. I do have some work to do before my first “Christmas lunch”. I have a trip to London to get my head around for next week as well. It used to be to make sure I’d read the papers. Now I just worry that someone will remember to pick the little one up!