Warning Olympic fever does not respond to meds

Here I am again - I try to keep blogging but have discovered unless you are a 'freelance writer' (i.e professional blogger or unemployed) then time is not on your side. A more than full-time job and two busy little boys do tend to dampen one's ardour for doing anything other than collapsing in a small heap which is attached to a large glass of white wine in the evening. Then there is the daily paperwork but more on this later.

After the birth of Holden on that first Monday of the Olympics, I had a lot of time to contemplate my navel (or caesarian scar) and watch the fervour while breastfeeding - and what an experience this was, even via the television. I was constantly switching channels - not sure whether to watch Nordic skiing or freestyle snowboarding, skicross or hockey - the extremism of winter sports makes them more enthralling possibly, but also the trousers seemingly involved in curling make for fascinating viewing. The heartstring tugs continued after the untimely death of Joannie Rochette's mother and her heroic ice dance performance that garnered her a medal, followed by the well-deserved gold of Virtue and Moir with a skate that prompted a few tears from my hormonal self.

The chant of "We Believe" continued through the golds of Jon Montgomery in the skeleton and his beer-drinking antics in Whistler which made him a star, to the Canadian men and women winning gold in the ice hockey - the unofficial national sport of Canada - which even caused a shortening of the nails from the uninitiated like myself. I did have a cheeky cheer for Amy Williams - the only Great Britain medal in the Olympics - we have never been known for our winter sport prowess, Eddie the Eagle was the famous underdog that never triumphed for GB in the ski-jump and we loved him anyway.

The medals kept on flooding in for Canada and they resolutely remained at the top of the medal board until the very end. The British press were particularly unkind in their comments, although the Canadian press themselves were not entirely blameless with some inflammatory headlines which prodded at the lumbering crocodile of UK tabloids. 'Are These the Worst Olympics Ever' was probably more than unfair - peaceful protests, act-of-God snowlessness and an unfortunate death do not a terrible Olympics make. We could certainly attest to the unrivalled atmosphere and street partying free of theft and violence (only to be marred by the Stanley Cup Riots some time later) and the professionalism of Vanoc when dealing with the issues. Gregor Robertson, the Vancouver mayor, kept smiling for the cameras with John Furlong, and his matinee idol looks and US-style fervour kept the press mildy amused or bemused while the organisors kept on fixing the backstage issues. It was reminiscent of Noises Off, but done with a Canadian quirkiness and charm that won through by the end of 2 weeks - the stage management crew kept the actors looking good until the flame was transferred yet again - not only to Russia, but to my home town of London.

Now it is 2012 and my city prepares itself for the onslaught - all I would say, is beware the tabloid tongues and take it all as it comes and remember - “If you want a place in the sun, you had better be prepared to put up with a few blisters”