I was delighted to hear this quote yesterday, made by Norman Kember having been freed after over 100 days in captivity, especially since Tom Ford’s murder a couple of weeks ago had made the situation look ever bleaker. And by the sounds of it, the SAS team led a rescue mission worthy of the most exciting episode of 24, and I am indulging in some Friday morning work displacement by pleasantly daydreaming some Jack Bauer-style fantasies about the operation mounted to effect the rescue.

So far, Messrs Blair, Straw and Reid have issued statements making political mileage out of the brave rescue, the months of covert surveillance and intelligence work which the undoubtedly heroic team undertook. More politicians will undoubtedly jump in soon to help celebrate the release. Which makes me recall the way that members of the government branded Mr Kember as reckless when he was first captured. Doubtless the taking of hostages has made the already incredibly delicately balanced situation in Iraq even more precarious. But Norman Kember, along with people like Margaret Hassan, whose years of humanitarian work in the area led to her death at the hands of kidnappers eager to reap their own mileage, seems to me to have genuinely campaigned for the good of the Iraqi people. The oft-misquoted Burke quote, ‘The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good people to do nothing’ springs to mind as a justification of their actions.

His wife, Pat, made a touching statement on a New Zealand radio station, saying that she felt he had been ‘a bit silly’ to go to Iraq. Kember is a life-long peace activist, who first made a pacifist stand when he refused to do national service in the army, choosing instead to work in a hospital. Despite the danger which he knew it might place him in, he felt he had to go to Iraq to try and make a difference. All people who believe in freedom should laud him, and any suggestion of him having brought this on himself should be avoided. The news of his release will be a huge relief to those who caused a situation in Iraq which necessitates people like him to try and make a stance. The hypocrisy of their claiming it as their victory is heightened by the fact that the news sits on so many newspapers next to the headline that Bush is predicting at least another 3 years of occupation by US forces in Iraq.

Excuse me as I venture today into the realms of the sentimental…

The other day, before going to the cinema to see the ‘ok in an “I wouldn’t watch it again” kind of a way’ Oscar winning South African film Tsotsi, and whilst eating a mixed grill in the ‘best Turkish grill in London’ that I like to call lambland with RawSausages and Genius, we were discussing my latest bout of pregnancy related discomfort, and he asked me if I had enjoyed my pregnancy at all.

Which made me stop and think.

My pregnancy book divides chapters into months of the pregnancy. And at the beginning of each month, I have read the next chapter to be prepared for what could be coming up. Babyfather commented in my first trimester that if we read of a possible symptom in the book, I was bound to have it. And it does seem to have been a textbook ‘confinement’.

In the eight months since conception, I have experienced (in vaguely chronological order): morning sickness; constipation; food aversions; food cravings; a migraine which lasted a week; anaemia; loss of appetite; dizziness; erratic emotional outbursts; fatigue; muscular pain in the abdomen; aching bones in the pubis and pelvis; groin pain; swollen ankles after flying; increasing back pain; swollen wrists leading to carpel tunnel syndrome, pins and needles in my hands, and the inability to wear my rings; worse constipation and an outbreak of piles; inability to sleep at night due to the discomforts listed above and the fact that my now mammoth belly is in the way; and most recently, extreme terror over the idea of giving birth. In addition, I have suffered greatly with travelling on public transport – the tube making first trimester nausea unbearable, and the rudeness of people who don’t offer seats to visibly pregnant women having more than once led to me bursting into tears on the number 38 (including this morning: what happened to the English being a well-mannered nation?) Moving house and problems at work have meant that my stress levels have shot up, and worrying that the stress is hurting my baby has compounded this.

Not planning a pregnancy, I wasn’t in great physical condition when I conceived, with my fractured coccyx in particular having added to my discomfort. If I were to do it again (after all this!) I would ensure that I got healthy first to try and avoid as much of that list as I could.

But it only took me a couple of seconds of thinking before I answered RawSausages in the affirmative. When I told Blonde my news, before Babyfather and I had decided whether we were going to go ahead with the pregnancy, she told me ‘no one ever regretted having a baby, and lots of women have regretted getting rid of an unborn one’. And despite all of my concerns and fears, despite all of the discomfort, I am sure that what is about to happen to me will be the most rewarding thing I have done. I just hope that I am able to do my child justice.

The Queen of Cakes and I have an ongoing ‘dysfunctional family of the week’ mantle which gets passed back and forth depending on levels of jaw-dropping behaviour in our respective families, (she will excuse me for commenting that she currently wears this, as her brother knowingly tried to set her up with a man last week who, it turned out, is friends with the men who murdered her sister’s husband a year and a half ago) and I commented to her yesterday that my own little offshoot of my family is already in danger of being a regular wearer of this mantle, and one of the members hasn’t even been born yet. So I am going to spend the next few weeks trying very seriously to work out how best to give my child a stable, loving environment amidst all the uncertainty of its immediate environment and all the ‘evilitude’ of the wider world.

It’s been over three months since I updated this site, and I apologise to my (3) regular readers who I don’t know personally. The rest of you will have had an idea of what’s been going on in my life, and possible reasons for my apparent apathy towards this blog of mine. I have, in fact, started a number of posts that never reached completion, and had never entirely abandoned the site, but circumstance has got the better of me.

As an impeccable follower of the tenets of Recidivism, it is fitting that it has taken two months for me to make a New Year’s resolution, and (just so you are forewarned) I have absolutely no intention of keeping it. But for what it’s worth, and for however long it lasts, here it is: I must be more disciplined in making regular updates to my site.

And to kick that off, here is the digested past few months.

August – November 2005 – despite attempts to keep up her blog entries, Recidivist frequently recidivates, eventually falling into silence. During this time, she renames (nolonger)Drunk, Babyfather as she realises with a start of shock, and a surge of nausea, that Recidivist-lite has started its pre-natal life. Recidivist-lite is due on April 28th, and Recidivist spends these months feeling very very ill. Babyfather, undergoing treatment, looks after her admirably, and they both spend time looking for a new flat following the news that the house Recidivist shared with Blonde and Busy has received a rather good offer, of 50% above the price they paid for it just a year and a half ago. In the meantime Recidivist is also very busy in her new job setting up a department in a major financial institution, and with the combined stress of work, house-hunting and extreme nausea, feels her silence may be justified.

December 2005 – Recidivist decides not to rename Babyfather again, but just to start adopting whichever moniker is most suited to him at the time. For several days in December he becomes Drunk again. She goes on holiday to spend some time with her family in South Africa, and to attend a lesbian wedding, leaving him pissed in the pub, but returns a week later due to problems with the exchange on her house, and stresses with her family, which her now 4-and-a-half month fetus do not allow her to deal with calmly. On her return Drunk is (nolonger)Drunk and the two of them spend the next month packing and planning for the move.

January – February 2006 – Recidivist and Babyfather move to their new flat, which contains a large sitting room, and two small bedrooms at the back. After three visits to IKEA and a lot of money spent on tools, they complete the installation of their new kitchen. Much money has been saved doing it this way, but Recidivist has sacrificed her beautiful manicure in the process. Credit cards are hammered as kitchen appliances in stainless steel are purchased. Babyfather agrees with his treatment centre that he should go to a residential rehab, and departs the day after Valentine’s Day – two years after Recidivist first met him. Recidivist occupied herself by spending a lot of time tidying, catching up with friends nearby who are mindful of her solitary and gestational state, and going to work. She celebrates her 31st birthday, and decides that this would be a good day to bring her New Year’s resolutions into practice.

During the past few months, Recidivist has watched Bleak House, Lost, Shameless and Celebrity Big Brother on television. She has watched Brokeback Mountain at the movies, and the Wicker Man on DVD (bought a week before The Guardian gave out hundreds of thousands of free copies). She started reading Great Expectations, but didn’t finish it, but was more successful with re-reading Bandiet by Hugh Lewin, and Porterhouse Blue, by Tom Sharpe. She has also read many copies of Heat, Private Eye, and Pregnancy and Birth magazine.

She has found out that an ex, and friend (who accompanied her to Dungeness) has died in a cycling accident, and a close friend has undergone a double mastectomy, but is recovering and that the chemo she is undergoing now is hopefully merely precautionary. She has designed wedding invitations for her friends RawSausages and Genius, and celebrated in a state of sobriety with them on New Year’s Eve at the news that they, too, are doing their bit to stem the UK baby shortage crisis. She has planned, and dreamed, and worried.

Recidivist is looking forward, with trepidation, to the coming months.

Best things about Prague. The Iron Gate Hotel Royal Suite courtesy of off-season Expedia rates. Crispy roast duck with red cabbage and potato and bacon dumplings. The 1920s hand-cranked open top car which we decided to hire for a quick tour, in the snow, of the highlights of the city, instead of the tour buses recommended in the guidebooks. The gothic turrets and towers which, lit up in the snow, give the city such a fairytale quality. The stress-free long weekend spent in a city seemingly devoid of crowds and traffic and peopled with charming and friendly multi-lingual Czechs.

Worst things about Prague. Not packing enough layers. Looking like a womble in the Russian style furry hat I bought to keep the chill off. Leaving.

I see with interest that Naomi Campbell has come out in public support of Kate Moss. I am glad someone has, even though I am not sure whether the beleaguered supermodel will benefit from her problem being shared by one of fashion’s least liked ambassadors.

It would be great if we could do a quick headcount of models who indulge in the odd chop and sniff, and perhaps then expand that to find out about the industry in general. Your Diors and Mulberrys who have dropped the model – wouldn’t it be wonderful to pull back a curtain onto their world, to see if, as I suspect, many of them insist on the unnatural, unsustainable thinness of the models – which is surely a by-product of the drug welcomed by the industry? Wouldn’t you like to see if any of the people from the client themselves indulge backstage with the models? I would be surprised if they all came out whiter than white.

And more importantly, if we are doing an expose, would it not be of interest to investigate these purveyors of so-called ‘role-model’ morals, the complacent hacks of the press, who so long ago forgot the enthusiasm with which they joined the ranks of the Fourth Estate, and now just churn out meaningless drivel instead of trying to write thoughtful pieces which will change the way we think. Now, perhaps I am generalising here, but it was my impression that the occasional toot at a Fleet Street shindig is not unheard of. (I am reminded of the time when the BBC revealed that such and such a percentage of bank notes, when tested, could be found to have traces of cocaine. And then it was revealed that they had got the notes from their staff. Apocryphal, perhaps, but it illustrates my point humorously. And hey – if the paid up members of the journalistic world can be slapdash in their opinion making, then why can’t I?)

The thing is, the press are not even consistent in their anti-drug outrage. Last year, when Mutu was fired from Chelsea for his drug use, I recall reading several articles which questioned why Mourinho hadn’t put him into rehab or given him counselling, as they recognised that he is suffering from an illness, and should be supported, not censured.

But the difference is, of course, that Kate Moss has refused to bow to tabloid pressure to ditch the beast to whom she, in their view, played beauty. The press’ treatment of Pete Doherty, no easily PR’ed, fresh-faced popstrel, is another story and another rant entirely, but when Moss stuck by her man, showing a loyalty and strength of character not common in celebrity couples, they clearly felt snubbed that she hadn’t taken their persistent advice to get out of the relationship.

Kate Moss has, of course, apologised. She had to – to stop the ‘melt-down’ of her career which Max Clifford was predicting this time last week. It was probably the right thing to do. But I can’t help wishing that she had blown the lid on the whole lot of them. To me, hypocrisy of that order in the press is a far better indicator of the moral decay of society, than someone (trying very hard to do so in private) getting off their head.