Nothing major, or inexplicable. A combination of badly-timed freelance deadlines, a husband on nights and worried about a regime change at work, my boy being a bit of a bollix, my girl being my girl, and me just feeling tired.
I'm citing all this in my defence, because I cried at The Archers, for f**k's sake. A storyline just got me this week. [I'm not going to even bother with a spoiler alert, because, well, it's The Archers]. No, it was nothing to do with Tom sodding Archer's pigs, or Jennifer frigging Aldridge's new kitchen - it was Ruth, having a miscarriage.
My pregnancy mishaps were a long time ago. One of the 'dates' rolled by the other week, and it was OK, or at least it seemed like it was.
But it was when Ruth said about the blood. About there being too much blood, and her knowing, for sure, she'd lost her baby. It made me remember the times I knew. My blood running cold at the same time as it ran hot from my body.
It made me remember the worst time. The Friday night we were round our friend's house at a noisy, busy, house party. How I sat in her toilet staring down at what I thought I'd lost again, the blood all that was left of what I thought was my last chance for another child. How I spoke to her in the kitchen and told her I'd have to go, but it was OK, I'd pick up a couple of mates from the pub as previously arranged, because I didn't want to let them down, and anyway, everyone else had had a few drinks. How I got us home, got my daughter to bed, how I did all this in a sedate, methodical, state, like there was nothing wrong. And how it was then, and only then, that I fell apart.
I had to wait until Monday to have a scan. My Long Weekend.
I was convinced this was like the other times. That there'd be no heartbeat. I didn't think I could bear the kindness of the radiographer, as she rubbed the gel on my belly and switched on the screen.
And then there was this little thump. And the worst turned into another best. That little thump is the one that's been a little bollix this week. And I should point out that every time I complain about the little bollix on this blog, I am celebrating the fact the little bollix is here at all. The fact that he came back to life for me, that I was wrong when I 'knew' he was gone. He'd gone nowhere. He was here. He's here.
No, I mean, he is here. Literally. He's just padded down the stairs, and it's 10 o'clock at night for f***'s sake! GET TO BED!