Well, this sucks. Just generally, you know, all of this.
2025 was a global trash fire and 2026, just 11 days old, looks like a case of a little bit louder and a lot lot worse. My job was finally smacked with the AI stick in early 2025. It left me scrambling and stressed, given there were moths in my bank account after buying my house. By mid-summer I had secured more work, but I was struggling to stay on top of life. Deadlines slid by. The garden ran wild. The Child vanished into her screens.
During Biden’s interregnum I had begun to refer privately to 2017—2021 as the vampire years for the way they drained the mood and focus of anyone who was paying attention. And while Trump II was shaping up to be an order of magnitude worse than those years—the Nosferatu to Trump I’s Colin Robinson—surely my lassitude and lack of focus couldn’t all be attributed to the toxic background radiation of our times.
I figured I must’ve hit that mid-40s aging cliff they talk about. I supposed I needed to learn new ways of managing my energy. Then I passed out in a Sainsbury’s, and it turned out that I had iron-deficiency anaemia to the point of having a red blood cell count my GP called “fairly alarming” (that’s some of that British understatement you hear about). The underlying cause is nothing sinister—just an acute case of being a 46-year-old lady who tends to do everything the hard way—and I have been receiving treatment, slowly recovering over the course of the autumn and winter. Wish I could say the same for either of the countries I pay tax to.
Anyway, I’m back. Have some terrible photos of foxes by way of apology:

Open thread!


