When not to blog.

So, in case you're wondering, I'm pretty sick right now. Hormones do a remarkable job, and having had a number of miscarriages, I'm grateful for their presence in the proper quantities. But they're not fun.

Apart from being nauseous to a hellish degree, I find myself a deeply emotional participant in everyday life. I'm trying to be extra careful what I blog. Given how notorious written communication is for giving unintended offense, I feel this is wise.

I had just this afternoon banged out a post on some of my views on various issues, ranging from the welfare state to the concept that war is something a Christian should only support if they have their backs to the wall. For those readers who are insatiably curious, I don't agree with either of those positions.

But, as I read the post back to myself this evening, having gone away and come back to it, I realized that much of it, though a true representation of my various conservative-with-a-small-c beliefs, was simply a hormone hazed frustration relief exercise.

My long-suffering husband knows enough about me not to let me watch Question Time at a certain point in the month, so you can imagine the eggshells he walks on when I'm pregnant and there are various happenstances in the world I am bound to react to.

One of the things I find intriguing about the period in my late teens and early twenties when I had no relationship with my father is how very, very different from him I turned out politically. My father is a dyed-in-the-wool socialist - a union man for whom Maggie Thatcher is a swear-word. I recall buying him a Maggie alarm clock - the kind you throw against a wall to turn it off - and his furious reaction before he realized it was a joke.

I, on the other hand, have developed into a full-orbed conservative - believing very strongly in small government, low taxation and a hefty dose of personal responsibility. As it turns out now, I don't think we're all that far apart at the core - he's an old-school disciplinarian who believes in respect and politeness, and now works for the police.

But one thing we never, ever do is talk about politics. Because he is a pig-headed union man, and I am stubborn, gobby Tory. Maybe I am the next Mrs Thatcher, who was, after all, only a grocers daughter.

So, that being said, I shall promise to be very careful about inflicting things on you, dear reader, that could conceivably be termed 'hormonally induced venting'. I shall exercise restraint, and only veer off into Fawlty-esque florid rants when I have eaten enough ginger cake beforehand to be sure I'm well-balanced.

Anyway, as you were.