Fulfilment, Dobbies and the Slow Return to Normal for my boobs.

I have about fifteen minutes to write this as I'm sitting in wifi-happy Dobbies (a fantastic garden centre for those who don't live in Scotland) but it closes at half five. Today being a Tuesday and in November (if I sound a bit like Winnie the Pooh, forgive me, I've forgotten how to think and talk like an adult) means that super nanny Christine is taking care of the kids, so I've escaped. You may wonder why I'm sitting in a garden centre. Well, if I was in London (sigh), NewYork (sigh), Singapore (sigh) or in the jungles of Costa Rica (sigh sigh sigh), then I would probably be somewhere slightly cooler. But here in the urban jungle of Glasgow, a garden centre is the best I can do. And in any case, there aren't any wifi-happy cafes near me.
So what I want to write about is fulfilment. What is it? Does anyone have it? Do we always think we need more than we have? Does everyone feel the need to constantly do more, achieve higher, earn more, have a bigger house, better car, fancy jeans that cost over £100? Or is that just me. Hugo would go ballistic if I spent £100 on jeans.
The root of my lack of fulfilment at the moment is this: 4 years ago I left London to be with Hugo, and BANG, in a poof of smoke all career opportunities shrivelled up leading me working for a massive engineering company filled with one eyed hunchbacks (seriously, you should have seen the guys on the second floor) ALL overweight, ALL bald and ALL members of one union or another and therefore not interesting in doing anything without striking about it.
"Want me to have to push another button in order for this piece of equipment to work? That goes against my terms and conditions. I'm striking" That sort of thing.
So, three years (albeit filled with two periods of maternity leave) later, I feel that everyone else (e.g. in London) have moved on and are now super duper account directors / associate directors / managing directors / CEOs for gods sake, and here I am, sitting in a garden centre in Bearsden feeling unfulfilled. Wondering every so nervously what I'm going to do next and how I'm going to keep myself in nice jeans.
As for the boobs, following a nasty bout of gastric flu yesterday I had to stop breast feeding (too weak to even express) and so now my boobies are returning to their usual milk free state. I can fling on my underwired lacy bras once more and brandish my minging mothercare cotton bras to the Guy Fawkes bonfire. This in a sense is fulfilling, but it's not quite what I meant.