Category Archives: Politics

Kwasi Kwarteng’s new job

29 Saturday Oct 2022

Posted by in Humour, Politics

≈ Leave a comment

Good news for all those sending thoughts and prayers to unemployed Kwasi Kwarteng! He’s been able to find a new position very quickly – and by Friday afternoon had actually already started in his new role.

A secret audio-recording of his first assignment has been circulating online, and is reproduced for you here in full.

TRANSCRIPT

Miss Watson: “Right class, this is Mr Kwarteng, and he’s going to be taking your maths lesson today. Let’s give him a really big Rabbits welcome.”

Multiple voices in a chant: “Good afternoon Mr Kwar-teng.”

Miss Watson: “We’re very lucky to be able to welcome Mr Kwarteng to Tavicroft Infant School, and he’s here to teach us about something very important: Growth.

Amir: “Miss! Miss! I’ve grown 2cm since the Summer. My mum says she’s not going to buy me new trousers though because we’ve only had these ones a few weeks.”

Miss Watson: “Gosh that is a lot Amir. Let’s remember that we need to put our hands up before we speak – and NO Caleb, we do NOT use them to do THAT. Let’s all put fingers on heads: Fingers on lips: Hands in our magic basket.

“Now. Who here can tell Mr Kwarteng what we’ve been learning about growth in our maths lessons this week. How do we make small numbers BIGGER?”

[Sounds of hands going in the air and general straining]

Miss Watson: “Mia.”

Emily: [Mumbled] “Adding.”

Miss Watson: “That right, Mia, addition. And Mr Kwarteng is an expert at addition, and has had a lot of experience with money and how it works. He – ”

Mrs Langsett: “Miss Watson! Can I borrow you for a moment?

[Muffled noises and conversation]

Miss Watson: “I’m sorry class I’m just going to have to step out and talk to Mrs Langsett. I’ll leave you in Mr Kwarteng’s capable hands.”

[Miss Watson leaves the room].

Mr Kwarteng: “Um. Right. Right. Nice to meet you children. Who wants to tell me what you’ve been learning about addition?”

[Sounds of hands going in the air and more general straining]

Mr Kwarteng: “Right. Yes. You. What’s your name?”

Joe: “Joe.”

Mr Kwarteng: “And what did you want to tell me about addition, Joe?”

Joe: “Please can I go to the toilet?”

Mr Kwarteng: “Um. Well. Yes, I suppose that’s okay. Off you go. Um. You? What’s your name?”

William: “William.”

Mr Kwarteng: “And is this about addition?”

William: “Yes sir. Addition is when you have some things, and then you have more things and you put them together and you have lots of things.”

Mr Kwarteng: “Very good! That is right – most of the time. But here’s the real thing: sometimes to get more things, especially things like money, you have to take things away first.”

Amanda: “Ooooo Oooooo Oooo me me ME!”

Mr Kwarteng: “Yes?”

Amanda: “Subtraction!”

Mr Kwarteng: “Well, yes. I suppose that IS subtraction, yes. Um. Yes?”

Mia: “I don’t like subtraction. I can’t get the tens to go in the right column.”

Caleb: “I’ve got 10p.”

Mr Kwarteng. “Okay. Well that’s good. That’s a good start. Ok. Right. Let’s try this. What if I gave everyone in here ten apples.”

[Sounds of more hands going in the air]

Mr Kwarteng. “Um – okay, yes? Over there at the back.”

Joshua: “I can’t bite into apples because I’ve got no teeth at the front.”

Mr Kwarteng: “Ah, so I see. Well, yes, that does make it harder, obviously – yes? With the pigtails just here?”

Sita: “Could we have pumpkins? It’s going to be Halloween really soon. I’m going to be a witch. I was a witch last year too. But my dad isn’t made of money, you know.”

Mr Kwarteng: “Well, okay, yes, I suppose I do know that. And yes, we could all have ten pumpkins – yes… William?”

William: “My Grandma doesn’t like Halloween because of Jesus.”

Mr Kwarteng: “Ah. Well. Okay. I think that’s another sort of lesson. Let’s stick to maths shall we? So. You’ve all got ten pumpkins. But you give me one pumpkin each. That’s called taxes. In return I give you the things that everyone needs and can share. Now…here’s the…”

Amanda: “Mine are going to be witch pumpkins and they’re going to be really REALLY scary.”

Mr Kwarteng. “Um, okay. Right. Yes – over there at the back?”

Caleb: “Like the shop area? Miss Watson says we have to share the shop area but the girls are always in it and won’t let us play.”

Mr Kwarteng: “Yes, okay. Well. That’s right. But sharing is good… So we all get to use that area – because I provide it using the apples you give me. Now. Let’s say that everyone on the back row has 20 apples.”

Amanda: “Sir! Sir! I thought it was pumpkins.”

Mia: “Why can’t I have 20 pumpkins? That’s not fair.”

Mr Kwarteng: “Ah, but now the people with 20 pumpkins will have more pumpkins and they’ll put more pumpkins into the shop, so everyone will benefit.”

Caleb: “I’m not putting my pumpkins into the shop because the girls are always in it. I’m taking my pumpkins home with me.”

Sita: “Sir – it’s a cake shop!”

Joshua: “Sir! Sir! It is NOT. It’s a bakery, Miss Watson said.”

Mr Kwarteng: “Right, right, okay – we’re being distracted by the produce, I think, so let’s… um… let’s say I give everyone £10, and those on the back row £20, and you all give me £1 every month to pay for things we all want. Like teachers – just like Miss Watson.”

[Background murmurs of dissent and jubilation]

Caleb: “I’m going to buy Pokemon cards!”

Sita: “I’m going to get an air up!”

William: “I’m going to buy my Grandma more Universe Credits!”

Amanda: “I’m going to buy a house!”

Joshua: “We were going to buy a house but the Moor Gate fell through so now we’re not.”

Mia [wailing]: “Why don’t I get £20?”

[Much background noise: inaudible].

Amir [loudy]: “Sir, Sir! I’ve got a question Sir!”

Mr Kwarteng [relieved]: “Yes! Good. A question. Yes.”

Amir: “Why are you taking away my money when they’ve got MORE money? Can’t they pay more for the shop and Miss Watson?”

Amanda: “How much IS Miss Watson?”

Caleb: “I’ve got 10p!’

Amanda: “Is this the bit where we take things away to make them bigger in the end?”

Joshua: “He’s not going to take it away from ME.”

William: “That’s not fair, Sir!”

Mr Kwarteng: “Ah, but they’ve worked hard for their extra money, you see? They deserve to keep it because they’ve earned it. Let’s say the people at the back are big companies and employ lots of people. They’re going to use their money to spend and make MORE money, so in the end there’ll be more money in general.”

Sita: “My Daddy is a going to be a company now.”

Amir: “But will I get any? Any of the money?”

Mr Kwarteng: “Um, not technically, no. Unless you work for one of the companies. In which case you’ll get a bit. But you can borrow some money… So let’s say I lend you an extra £5. But you will have to pay me back.”

Caleb: “It’s my birthday tomorrow, can I have £5? I’m getting a dinosaur onesie, too, so we don’t have to turn the heating on.”

Amanda: “Sir, Caleb doesn’t work hard. You just gave him his £20 for no reason. Don’t give him £5. He didn’t even put his book away this morning!”

Caleb: “I did too!”

Mia: “Why can’t I have £25? It’s not fair!”

Mr Kwarteng: “But, um Amir, is it? You have to pay me back £8. And that’s called interest.”

Amir: “But I only got £5!”

Joshua: “I don’t think it’s very interesting.”

Amanda: “I don’t think it’s very fair.”

Mia: “It’s not fair!”

[Straining sounds].

Mr Kwarteng: “Um. But you see… Okay – yes?”

Sita: “Joe hasn’t come back from the loo, Sir, shall I go and fetch him?”

Mr Kwarteng: “Um… okay, yes that would be very helpful.”

William: “Mr Kwerty! Mr Kwerty! Are you very rich? Where are all of the pumpkins and all this money coming from?

Amanda: “We got our pumpkin from Sainsbury’s.”

Mr Kwarteng: “Ah! Yes. Well that’s a very good question. I’m borrowing it too – from lots of other places and people.”

Sita: “Sir, Joe’s had an accident in the toilet and there’s water everywhere.”

Mr Kwarteng: “Um…”

Caleb: “Are they making you pay back more than you borrowed in the first place, Sir?”

Mr Kwarteng: “Well, yes, but it’s more sort of… imaginary money.”

Sita: “Like the money in the shop?”

Joshua: “IT’S A BAKERY!”

Sita [sounds of outrage]: “OW Joshua that hurt. Sir Joshua poked me! Miss Watson says we have to use kind hands!”

Amanda: “Is my £20 imaginary?”

Mia [audible sobs]: “Why don’t I have £20?”

Mr Kwarteng: “Well in a way, all money is imaginary, really… It’s only really worth anything because we all agree it is.””

Caleb: “My 10p isn’t. It’s right here, Sir, Look.”

Joshua: “Sir! Sir! Sita says I’m not invited to her party anymore!”

Mr Kwarteng: “Well, that’s not very kind either, you know, Sita. Loyalty is very important, and if you’re friends – or in a party together – you shouldn’t be stabbing each other in the back as soon as the going gets tough…”

Amir: “When are we starting the adding, Sir?”

Sita: “Joshua keeps stabbing me in the back, Sir!”

Caleb: “I don’t think anything is growing. I don’t have any money OR any pumpkins.”

William: “My Mummy knows a Mr Kwar-twonk. She shouts at him on the radio in the car.”

Amanda: “Sir, Mia is crying because she doesn’t get £20! And she misses her mum because she’s on nights all the time. Is it okay if I give her some of my imaginary £20? She doesn’t have to pay me back if she doesn’t want to. We can share. Like with the shop and the teachers.”

Joshua: “IT. IS. A. BAKERY.”

Sita: “IT. IS. A. CAKE. SHOP.”

Mia [Sobbing]: “It’s… not… fair…”

[Sounds of general chaos ensue]

Mr Kwertang [in desperation, audibly sweating]: “Right, Right Children! CHILDREN! I think we’re getting off the topic, here! ORDER! ORDER!”

Amir [quietly to Caleb and Mia near the microphone under the background noise]: “I don’t think he’s very good at maths, do you?”

Mia: [in a small voice between sniffs]: “I don’t think he’s very nice.”

Caleb [less quietly]: “I can’t remember what lesson we were doing. But I’d rather give my 10p to Miss Watson!”

Miss Watson [entering the classroom]: “WHAT IS GOING ON IN HERE? RABBITS!”

[Miss Watson claps out a rhythm]

[Rhythm is repeated by the class. Silence follows].

Miss Watson [quietly]: “Right Rabbits, I want everyone back in their carpet spaces in 5, 4, 3, 2…. THIS MEANS YOU CALEB…. Aaaaaaaaand 1.

Thank you Rabbits. I do NOT expect to leave the classroom for five minutes and for you all to turn into Wild Warthogs. And it is especially rude in front of our new guest teacher!

“Now I want everyone to get a whiteboard from the front, and do the additions on the screen, please. Remember, I want to see you drawing out your tens and ones in lines and dots as we have been practising. Let’s grow these numbers…

“Joe, please go and find your trousers, presumably in the toilets, and come and join us on the carpet.”

Amanda: “But Miss! He gave some us £20 and not others – and then took it away from us just like the pumpkins – and then he cheated Amir and we didn’t do any addition at all.”

Miss Watson: “And we can do it, WITHOUT TALKING, Amanda, thank you very much.”

Mr Kwarteng: “Um. Right. I think I might just step out and have a little word with Mrs Langsett…”

TRANSCRIPT ENDS

Liz Truss killed my hamster!

29 Saturday Oct 2022

Posted by in mental health, Parenting, Politics

≈ Leave a comment

Liz Truss Killed My Hamster!

Okay, well, to be fair she didn’t come into my house and PHYSICALLY preside over his demise. (Wouldn’t put it past her, mind).

But the absolute disaster of her government’s policies has meant – like so many others – I’m pretty worried about money right now. And steadfastly refusing to put on any heating.

So she is DEFINITELY responsible for the fact my house is colder than it’s ever been, and I therefore couldn’t be 100% sure he wasn’t hibernating, and thus had to sit with a gently warming corpse under my desk on a hot water bottle for an entire day JUST IN CASE.

(That’s not the kind of mistake you can come back from. Certainly not if you’re a hamster).

Although there are no long queues around the block to see him, or any national periods of mourning, Mr Tulip’s death (Chewy for short) has hit me pretty hard, because he was a KING amongst hamsters.

And I loved him as I am apparently fated to love everything – all consumingly and slightly unhingedly.

He was – and this is true – the favourite of my dependents.

This is because unlike any of the others he was incredibly easy to care for, easily pleased, endlessly accommodating, consistently kind, endearingly self-entertaining and unrelentingly cute. It was simply not in his nature to object or grump, in his physical abilities to whine or scream (or indeed to purr alluringly and then attack me).

He was a Nice Critter.

But he was more than that too…

We got him as a little beacon of fluffy hope in the midst of lockdown horrors. He gave us something to love, something to laugh at and something to glue us back together. He ended strife with the magic wiggle of his little Syrian shelf-butt.

He was a tiny, soft, sweet and good thing in a big, hard, cruel and bad world.

And his going has somehow let all of that dark pour in – the dark that pours into my soul every October – this year through a small rodent-shaped hole, the black of shiny bright eyes.

And my while my sadness is hamster-shaped, it is not hamster-sized. Because I’m crying about more than Mr Tulip.

I’m crying for the end of a mini-era; for a tiny light in a very broken world that’s no longer there to brighten it; for all losses my own and others’ – big and small, past and present; for the deaths I know are coming round the corner; for the inevitability of future abandonments; for the futility of love with nowhere to go; for nice things taken away; for powerlessness; for all the cold places and for all the awfulness all around.

And the other bad Things and bad Thoughts I have been holding at bay flow in as fragile walls crumble into sawdust, and roll around on an endless wheel behind my eyes. My seed-ball head cannot hold its shape under their onslaught and I am scattered – tiny pieces covering the floor.

Mr Tulip would have known just what to do about this situation.

I can see his little cheeks now.

They say January is the most depressing month of the year, but for me it always October. And I traditionally spend the month berating myself for my low mood, running away from the looming, nameless things chasing me, and trying to pull myself together with varying degrees of success.

But this year – this year I’m just going to embrace being sad about sad things. However small they are. However huge.

Sometimes you have to acknowledge the dark before you can leave it behind again.

Sometimes it helps.

And sometimes, so does blaming Liz Truss-ed-us-all-up-good-and-proper.

xxx

Abortion.

23 Saturday Jul 2022

Posted by in Abortion, Infertility, mental health, Miscarriage, Motherhood, Politics

≈ Leave a comment

I’ve spent a long time wondering what, and if, to say anything about abortion.

It’s a divisive issue.

And it’s a gift for for keyboard sancti-warriors everywhere, and I’m not really one to put my head on the chopping block for no good reason.

But I’m going to. Because this IS a good reason.

I’ve chosen to post in particular because I’ve not only been following what’s been happening over in America, but some of what’s been happening here as Britain’s pro-lifers have been galvanised by the ‘victory’.

[I’m going to say now that I’m really happy to discuss this issue in comments, but I reserve the right to stop talking to you if I feel it is unproductive, and I will immediately block you if you are disrespectful. This is my page, and I can choose what I share, how I spend my time and energy on it, and who I let in].

I’m sorry I’m late to the Roe v Wade response-party. But I’ve been watching, and listening, and processing.

And I’ve found some of the coverage and comments very disturbing, in many different ways, but in particular for the stunning lack of empathy and imagination I’ve witnessed – for other people’s pain, and for other people’s pleasure.

Because fundamentally when I’ve boiled it down to it’s roots, abortion opposition seems to stem largely from a belief that women SHOULD NOT BE ENJOYING SEX.

This is actually the crux of the matter. If you don’t want a baby, and if you’re not prepared to take whatever risks that involves for you, you shouldn’t be having sex at any time, FOR ANY REASON. Particularly not because it feels nice. That’s not a ‘good’ reason. That’s dirty. And wrong. And if you do it you deserve everything that’s coming to you.

But remember, also don’t do anything ELSE fun (and more expensive) to feel good, like drinking, or taking drugs, or dancing, or dressing up – because that’s also BAD, and you deserve what’s coming to you. Again.

Look, you should basically just stay at home and be safe and small and miserable, as God intended.

(I’d be interested to see, incidentally, what this would all look like if the religious masses were coming after MALE sexual pleasure, because I suspect if would look very different).

It has been made very clear from the pro-life camp that women should not be having sex if they don’t want the baby-consequences. But even if they are ‘virtuous’ and abstain, but someone has sex with them anyway against their will, they should STILL have the babies. (See the miserable clause).

It’s here I’ve seen beleaguered pro-choicers try to appeal to the common sense of the pro-life-at-all-costers, citing cases of rape or incest or extreme youth – followed by cases of fetal abnormalities and risk to the mother’s life.

But this is a mistake. Not only because they seemingly can’t listen to reason or nuance – but because IT’S NOT ABOUT THE EXTREME CASES.

You don’t need a ‘good reason’ (as defined by a branch of Christianity, or anyone else at all).

The only reason a woman should need to have an abortion is that she doesn’t want to be pregnant.

And while the cells involved are at the organising stage where there is no sentience, no viability and NO DAMN LIFE – that should be it. Period. (Which you might not even have missed until you’re already 6 weeks along).

If you’re really pro-life you should be pro the life that actually real-life exists already – the mother – and what she wants and feels as a person. Not a vessel. Not a publicly-owned incubator.

You should of course also be PRO child-lives when they exist in the world outside the womb – and ready to support them through the simple expedient of paying more taxes for public and social services, and doing practical things to help families in your community. Because if birthing and raising kids was safer and less expensive, having babies would be more a viable option – and you say that’s what you want.

But pro-lifers never seem to want that, do they? The people picketing outside the clinics typically aren’t doing anything to actually help mothers. And mothers who DO choose babies outside of the very strict parameters vast swathes of pro-lifers prefer – including heterosexual marriage, being between 20 to 30 years of age and sticking to 2.4 by the same father – are also vilified by them as irresponsible, promiscuous, selfish, or tainted.

Sigh. Look, I’ve seen a lot of coverage about pro-lifers only being pro-fetus, and there is so much that has been said and is still to say about institutionalised sexism and deep societal problems and the problematic role of religion in politics – but that’s not actually I want to talk about right now.

I want to talk about my own experiences.

I’ve come to believe we should all be talking about this more often. We don’t talk about our fertility journeys, our losses, our choices or lack of them, our menstrual and gynaecological health and traumas – or our struggles with motherhood. And our collective reproductive privacy, secrecy, shame and fear have been used against us to get to this point. At the end of the day, when it came to Roe v Wade, we simply weren’t the ones shouting loudest.

I have two children.

But I have been pregnant four times.

I have been pregnant when I really, really wanted a baby.

And I have been pregnant when I really, really, didn’t.

And the difference was complete and utter, and undoing.

I am not going to go into the minutiae of the circumstances that have resulted in me not having four children, but I DO want to talk about how it FELT. Because I feel like it’s a bit of the picture that’s been missing.

I’ve read the extreme examples, and how it feels to desperately want a baby and for something to go wrong to make abortion a neccissity – but I’ve not read anything about how it feels just to plain NOT WANT TO BE PREGNANT.

So. Here’s what I want to add to all of this.

I have been pregnant when I wanted the baby so much it was all I could really think about, to the exclusion of all else, and I floated through the rest of my life willing it to stay, to be, to just make it all the way through to my arms. When I felt that baby in my heart from BEFORE I saw two blue lines. When I loved it with the sort of subwoofer love that you feel in your chest, that rings in your ears, curls your fingers, buckles your knees, clenches your womb and eventually drips from your breasts in milk. A violent love with the whole of your body, the whole of your mind, and a little bit more of you that wasn’t even there before it.

And then I have been pregnant, and not pregnant, and grieved for a baby when it wasn’t even there – when it wasn’t even real. When it was an empty egg sack. But it felt real to me – I wanted it. I loved it already, truely and wholly and desperately. And when I lost something I never really had in the first place, it felt like I had lost a slice of myself. I HOWLED at the empty. And there is still a space inside me where it was. Or wasn’t. Still.

I have also been pregnant when it wasn’t my choice. When it wasn’t fair. When I had done everything right. When I had been good. When I didn’t want it, and didn’t want it and didn’t want it in every single fibre of myself, every single second, profoundly, profusely. When I felt like my body had betrayed me and I wanted to punish it, to hurt myself, to claw this alien thing out of me before it robbed me of everything I knew, and dreamt, and planned, and WAS – until I was a scream inside out of myself, vibrating and keening and helpless and IMPOTENT. It was so other, so foreign, so invading. It was raw rage and resentment, flat, bone-deep repulsion and souring, soul-deep refusal.

So here’s what I know, and what I’d like you to think about.

I know that up to a certain point, a baby is a baby because you BELIEVE in it. It is an idea as well as a bunch of cells.

But if you don’t believe in it, if it wasn’t your idea, it’s not. It can be a violation.

I don’t think any pro-lifer is going to read this and suddenly have an empathy revelation by understanding something of what it’s like to lose control over your own body. But people who are on the fence might just read this and think that maybe, just maybe, not wanting a baby desperately and viscerally…. IS a good reason. Maybe people who have been in this situation might feel seen. Maybe people who will inevitably be in it someday sooner or later might remember this, and feel validated.

Whatever your views on abortion, I really, really hope you or someone you know never has to experience what it’s like to be pregnant – and not WANT to be pregnant.

And if they do, I hope they get some sympathy – and some mercy.

I hope they get to have some control over what happens next.

And I hope there are still good, safe options available to them.

Because – believe me – they WILL take the bad ones otherwise.

And if you felt like this – if circumstances you are lucky enough to currently be unable to imagine put you HERE, in this head space, in this body that is no longer your own – you might too.

UNPRECEDENTED

23 Saturday Jul 2022

Posted by in Humour, Poetry, Politics

≈ Leave a comment 






In the year of 2020, 
there came a secondary plague,
A word that entered lexicon
and made us all afraid -

It was on the lips of politicians, 
commentators and news readers
Influencers, Auntie Sue - 
and other minor global leaders.

You know it, Oh of course you do! 
It’s in your mind cemented 
A word you hardly said before - 
the word UNPRECEDENTED!

When a bat-shyt crazy virus, 
swept round the world in weeks
It was UNPRECEDENTED, 
said entomologic geeks.

When millions died and life collapsed 
and we all stayed at home,
When loo roll was our currency 
as we apocolypsed alone

When vaccines rolled out super-fast 
and we were all injected
When we clapped an NHS 
we now suddenly respected -

“We’ve never seen this, blow me down” 
is the way it was presented
The conclusion (and the get-out-clause) 
“This is UNPRECEDENTED!”

As time went on the word became 
a new part of our lives
As things ‘UNPRECEDENTED’ 
snowballed before our eyes…

When floods and fires were at their worst
since records had begun
When women’s rights unravelled
as they’d only just been won

When rules were made about our wombs
and rich men went to space,
When violence and extreme right views
were gathering apace

When the climate threw a wobbly, 
that we could not ignore
When war broke out and holocaust 
came closer than before

When a coup was perpetrated - 
by an actual President -
They looked around for ages, 
but could find NO PRECEDENT!

When an artful haystack Twonk was caught 
red-handed in his lies
When his resignation triggered 
a new Lord of the Flies,

When trains did strike, and petrol price 
was now an arm and leg -
When drugs and lettuce were now scarce 
in our new-made Brexit bed

When cost of living soared up high, 
to a point of heat or eat
(A dilemma the poor were told 
they should budget well to beat)

You guessed it - there it is again - 
though you might start to resent it -
The whole thing is reported as
EVENTS UNPRECEDENTED!

With so much going wrong right now, 
from here to Timbuktu
It might seem like vocabulary 
is not the fight to choose…

But it’s time to take a stand somewhere, 
and look for real solutions
Escape the tyranny of language 
in a lingui-revolution!

So let us unite and rail against 
this icksome, irksome word -
So under-sensed and over-used 
it’s really quite absurd.

Like Inigo Montoya in revenge 
we must be heard and seen:
We do not think that word you use 
means what you think it means…

Leaders! MPs! Journalists! 
And warriors of keyboard!
It’s time to drop the epithet
of which we’re bored and re-bored -

The bloody thing is meaningless
and driving us demented
Give it a rest we’re not impressed
Don’t say ___________ !

Stop hiding safe behind it, 
like it’s some sort of defence
We demand that you begin to set
a brand new PRECEDENCE -

One where you take real action, 
and responsibility -
And meet our global challenges 
with some basic empathy.

The world is changing fast, it’s true - 
at a speed that’s unrelenting -
But we can’t respond in ways that work 
if we’re still UNPRECEDENTING.

					


	





	

								
Ordinary Lost
										

			08
			Tuesday
			Mar 2022
		

	
	

		

			Posted  by  in Poetry, Politics		

		

			≈ Leave a comment
		

	

						

	


			

					


		

			

I am grilling fish fingers,
as the world burns,
from a screen
I can to choose to turn off -   
but don’t -
because it carries on behind my eyes
until not seeing
burns too.

I am folding washing,
as bombs fall,
far away too close,
and putting it in drawers,
gently shut,
with rage and fear banked 
in my fingers,
itching my teeth. 

I am hoovering,
enjoying the blank roar,
the sucking thunder
that elsewhere I know,
is the sound of grief - 
making sure
to reach into all the corners. 

I am working,
as apocalypse creeps,
and I email -
What’s the deadline on this, please?
Typing,
through the slow unreality 
of too golden treacle.

I am playing with my children,
as others die,
drinking invisible tea with white knuckles -
careful not to spill,
carrying on, pretending 
and pretending -
and pretending,
in layers.

I am boiling pasta,
and explaining war,
in fusilli words
which taste wrong -
spirals of privileged lies,
promising safety
I don’t believe -
but at least I can get away with.

I am stacking the dishwasher
holding mundanity 
like precious china,
suddenly unfamiliar -
abruptly beautiful, 
alien 
and talisman,
slipping from my hands
as I try to keep it safe.

I am going through motions,
that keep the world turning,
in impotent, banal cycles -
in case stopping anything
stops everything -
wearing normal 
in desperate momentum,
an old tattered jumper
with new holes.

I am chopping onions,
embracing the pain
of inadequate tears -
shed 
for humble human detail,
imbalanced human cost -
for the ordinary continuing,
and ordinary lost.

					


	





	

								
National gaslighting
										

			12
			Thursday
			Nov 2020
		

	
	

		

			Posted  by  in Parenting, Politics, Uncategorized		

		

			≈ Leave a comment
		

	

						

	


			

					


		

			






It’s very difficult to know what to write on here about politics. Because politics is divisive. And everything is so hard right now that I sort of just want an easy life… 





But I’m seeing over and over again arguments that now isn’t the time for politics, now isn’t the time for division, shut up and put up, BE KIND, carry on, see the bigger picture.





The trouble is that everything from the smallest pixel to the biggest panorama IS the picture. It IS politics. It’s not separate from real life, it IS real life. 





What you think about schools, work, business, anti-social behaviour, parenting, health – it’s ALL POLITICS. It always has been – and now more so than ever. 





If I say anything about anything, anything that matters, I’m saying something about politics. 





And what I want to say today is how FAMILIAR it all is. 





How the language, the binaries, the double standards of politics – even the weariness of having to deal with it – all remind me of nothing so much as an abusive relationship.





I’ll demonstrate. 





When I break the rules it’s because I’ve used my superior judgement. When you do it it’s ill-advised, and irresponsible. 





You’re too stupid to understand it properly. I’m following THE SCIENCE. And I speak louder. On a podium. 





I never said that. You’ve misunderstood. That never happened. I never promised that. What I meant was this – isn’t that obvious? 





That’s all in the past. Let’s move on. 





It was a success. I did do what I said I would. You just didn’t see it. 





I think what’s really important here is X, unrelated to the criticism you’re levelling at me, but somehow proving that actually you’re wrong and I’m right. 





Do as I say, not what I do. Listen to who I say I am, don’t look at what I’ve done. I’m a good guy. I’m a family man. 





Other people think I’m great. Look at this evidence that shows what I want it to. 





Don’t look at the other stuff. It’s lies by my enemies. 





You’re not being supportive. Why can’t you just support me at this difficult time? You never do. 





I’m just trying my best here. This is my vulnerability: look I’m human. I’m just like you. Feel sorry for me. 





You’re sorry? Good. My pain is important. Yours isn’t, let’s move on from that too. It’s about the greater good, you know. 





Stop complaining and pull together. We’re a team. 





Of course I trust you. But these are the rules. If you break them I’ll have to come down hard on you. 





That means it’s your fault I had to do this. 





I care – see I’m clapping/making an effort. No, I’m not going to give them/you more money/attention, that’s not the point. You’re never satisfied. 





Look at this shiny thing over here that you wanted, aren’t I an amazing boyfriend/husband/government? 





This is not the time. You’re overreacting. You’re being led astray by bad people/fake media. 





This isn’t about point scoring. Why are you complaining about X when Y is happening? 





We can talk about that later. Not now. Let’s focus on what’s really important. 





Why can’t you just be kind? 





The deja vous extends beyond the rhetoric to the response too. Because when someone just brazens it out, changes the subject, twists the facts, amends the past, deflects, passes blame – the small picture creeps in. You can’t stay angry. You doubt. You lose your thread. It gets muddled, muddied… And the kids need feeding, and the sun is shining, and the washing needs sorting, and life goes on, and they’re acting normally now, and perhaps it’s okay, and I want to be happy, and I want to go back to normal too, and everything is too hard and it’s just easier to pretend it didn’t happen, and maybe it didn’t, or maybe it wasn’t so bad, or maybe it was me, and what’s the point in fighting and frothing when you can never really win anyway? 





For me, the very worst thing about all of this, if we must stray into specifics, is Dominic Cummings using the ‘exceptional circumstances’ phrase as his get out of jail free card. Wording specifically designed to help victims of domestic abuse in lockdown. 





That appropriation has grated on me like nails down a chalkboard. 





Domestic abuse killings have doubled in the last ten weeks. Calls to the national abuse helpline have gone up by 950%. Emotional abuse, including gaslighting and coercive control, are a part of that picture. It is part of how relationships go toxic – and all of the above are examples. 





Because it is hard to define and hard to spot, it is hard enough to deal with at the best of times. It is even harder when it is being played out and echoed at a national level by the people in power. It is all about power, after all. It always is. 





You can be conscious of injustice and inconsistencies but you’re infantilised, distracted, belittled, confused, shut down and shut up – or worse, riled up and pitted against someone or something else. 





So I just wanted to let you know this, whatever you think of Dom, whatever you think of Boris, however you voted in Brexit: 





What’s going on in the world IS politics, and it IS your business. 





You are not too stupid to understand it. 





Your opinion matters.





Your pain matters.





You should believe your own eyes, and ears. 





Staying out of it, giving up your voice for an easy life, doesn’t actually make your life easier, in the end. 





It is not selfish or divisive or unsupportive to ask questions, and demand good answers. 





It is not ‘unkind’ to ask for better. 





And all of that all goes DOUBLE for your personal relationships. Triple. More. 





So if any of the above reminded you of what’s going on within your own four walls, there is help available to you. 





It doesn’t have to be violence to be abuse. 





Call the National Domestic Abuse Helpline on 0808 2000 247.





I hope you’re all safe and well. 





xxx





PS. Block-colour latex-hooker Barbie brought to you by the balloon fashion stylings of the Big Small.

					


	





	

								
When big and small switched
										

			12
			Thursday
			Nov 2020
		

	
	

		

			Posted  by  in Parenting, Poetry, Politics, Uncategorized		

		

			≈ Leave a comment
		

	

						

	


			

					


		

			

I think one of the reasons things feel so disorientating right now is that all the big things and the small things have become muddled up. Our priorities have changed, our perspective. And I want to remember how that felt, on the other side. So I tried to write it down, and it turned into a poem. 


When big and small switched
 
When the world stayed still, holding its breath or trying to catch it,
big and small got all - mixed up, switched, 
until we couldn’t tell which one was which, 
any more.
 
Something so small you couldn't see it - a dot on a dot on a pin -
stopped the big, wide world turning round.
But it turned out the world, after all, 
was so small 
we breathed down each other’s necks -
and we coughed. 
 
But as small as it was, as soft as it started, it was still too big
and too hard for us to see and care 
what happened, over there,
to those others that were so far away they LOOKED small -
so we watched them fall and felt safe and stayed free.
And then the Others were us, 
were we. 
 
And our own worlds got small, shrunk to a few rooms, 
a shop once a week, a walk.
And we could talk - but not face to face 
and it turns out the case 
was it was never cheap at all - as we recalled our big sprawling lives 
now halved, and marvelled at connections and interactions 
and how much touch meant, 
when we were starved of it. 
When it went.
 
And we saw the numbers, small news at first 
burst free of that vague page and get big, fast,
and tragedy was vast and small together overlaid
as tears became a cascading ocean and thousands become one,
the biggest number there is, in the end.
Our mum. Our brother. Our grandad. 
Our friend. 
 
And worries were now big and small scrambled
a picasso view through fly's eyes - so new we were dizzy, 
as all the angles on our life changed, 
ranging from small to big and back -
Will I get sick? Will she? Do the kids need a snack? 
Can I pay the bills this month? What’s for tea?
Is it just me that’s not coping well?
Will it ever be normal 
again?
 
And no one could tell us if or how or when, 
as we scrolled big scary news on small screens
and we leaned on the people whose jobs were now big - or always had been - 
who drove and delivered, and fed us and held our hands, as we died. 
And we came to understand that big heroes didn’t wear capes 
but they wear did masks. And they TRIED. 
And that was the biggest and smallest superpower - 
the first in the world, 
and the last. 
 
So we tried too, and as we drew together 
big differences seemed smaller, 
and small kindnesses meant big things -
because our hearts weren’t clipped, it was only our wings 
that couldn’t stretch. 
And the wretched big things that had seemed so important, weren’t, 
and we learnt that small things mattered, more than we knew -
were the glue that stopped us falling apart. 
Like pubs, and parks, and hugs when we meet
and friends, and plans, and days out, and nights,
live bands and crowds and shops and treats
and pasta, and loo roll, feeling safe - in control 
of our own lives. 
 
When big and small switched, the world stalled
until our eyes adjusted and we made a call
on which was which, now.
On how small things were big, looming tall
and how the big things seemed silly 
and small.
 When big and small switched
 
When the world stayed still, holding its breath or trying to catch it,
big and small got all - mixed up, switched, 
until we couldn’t tell which one was which, 
any more.
 
Something so small you couldn't see it - a dot on a dot on a pin -
stopped the big, wide world turning round.
But it turned out the world, after all, 
was so small 
we breathed down each other’s necks -
and we coughed. 
 
But as small as it was, as soft as it started, it was still too big
and too hard for us to see and care 
what happened, over there,
to those others that were so far away they LOOKED small -
so we watched them fall and felt safe and stayed free.
And then the Others were us, 
were we. 
 
And our own worlds got small, shrunk to a few rooms, 
a shop once a week, a walk.
And we could talk - but not face to face 
and it turns out the case 
was it was never cheap at all - as we recalled our big sprawling lives 
now halved, and marvelled at connections and interactions 
and how much touch meant, 
when we were starved of it. 
When it went.
 
And we saw the numbers, small news at first 
burst free of that vague page and get big, fast,
and tragedy was vast and small together overlaid
as tears became a cascading ocean and thousands become one,
the biggest number there is, in the end.
Our mum. Our brother. Our grandad. 
Our friend. 
 
And worries were now big and small scrambled
a picasso view through fly's eyes - so new we were dizzy, 
as all the angles on our life changed, 
ranging from small to big and back -
Will I get sick? Will she? Do the kids need a snack? 
Can I pay the bills this month? What’s for tea?
Is it just me that’s not coping well?
Will it ever be normal 
again?
 
And no one could tell us if or how or when, 
as we scrolled big scary news on small screens
and we leaned on the people whose jobs were now big - or always had been - 
who drove and delivered, and fed us and held our hands, as we died. 
And we came to understand that big heroes didn’t wear capes 
but they wear did masks. And they TRIED. 
And that was the biggest and smallest superpower - 
the first in the world, 
and the last. 
 
So we tried too, and as we drew together 
big differences seemed smaller, 
and small kindnesses meant big things -
because our hearts weren’t clipped, it was only our wings 
that couldn’t stretch. 
And the wretched big things that had seemed so important, weren’t, 
and we learnt that small things mattered, more than we knew -
were the glue that stopped us falling apart. 
Like pubs, and parks, and hugs when we meet
and friends, and plans, and days out, and nights,
live bands and crowds and shops and treats
and pasta, and loo roll, feeling safe - in control 
of our own lives. 
 
When big and small switched, the world stalled
until our eyes adjusted and we made a call
on which was which, now.
On how small things were big, looming tall
and how the big things seemed silly 
and small.
 

					


	





	

								
Pan-dem-ic
										

			12
			Thursday
			Nov 2020
		

	
	

		

			Posted  by  in mental health, Poetry, Politics		

		

			≈ Leave a comment
		

	

						

	


			

					


		

			






Hi. 





I’ve really struggled to write anything on here. 





I’ve really struggled full stop, to be honest. 





Everything looks the same but feels different. 





The world has twisted and we’re seeing it distorted from a new angle, where nothing has quite the same meaning any more – even words. So it’s been hard to use them. 





I’m lost for words… and lost in them. 





Everything I write is all peaks and troughs and seems irrelevant, either narrow and selfish or wide and wild. The weights are all wrong and off kilter. There’s this whole new language – from ‘coronavirus’ to ‘social distancing’. 





And then old words I thought I knew mean different things now. Teacher. Doctor. Unprecedented. News. Connect. Lonely. We all understand them differently than we did just six weeks ago. We thought we knew what ‘isolation’ and ‘quarantine’ meant – but now we can FEEL them. Now we really know them. And we wish we didn’t. 





We say to children, don’t we, when they are in heightened emotion – we say: ‘Use your words’. And I want to – but words have changed for me. They look and feel different, in my head and heart and mouth, on paper, because EVERYTHING looks different. Which is where this poem came from, I suppose. 





I AM writing, because that’s how I make sense of things. And this is all so non-sensical. Sense, but less – but also sense-full because all my senses are all on full alert at the same time… And that’s exactly it. New raw eyes on old words, which are suddenly full of new gaps and meanings. Where sign, signifier and signified have been exploded. (Either that, or the poem came from trying to teach phonics and do **shudder** ‘Fred Talk’ with a five year old who seems to have a vested interest in illiteracy). 





Pan-dem-ic





I would like to fry you 





in a pan





make you fam-iliar 





break you





up





beaten





like a pan-cake 





a head-ache 





a cough





flip you 





off





scoff at you –





scoff you 





whole 





starting with the holes





you made





every –





where. 










Dem is fighting words





fright-end words





because you are en-dem-ic





end-emic 





you end, 





every –





thing





one 





we knew





a dem-i-god 





of death and indoors





causer 





of the big pause 





–





tick





ick





I





C





you 





and you make me sick,





pan-dem-ic.





I suppose if there is good to come out of all of this it is in the fact we are all collectively seeing things so differently – up to and including words. We all have new eyes. 





And that disorientation, that space – the lift of the stomach before we plummet – might be uncomfortable, but it also makes this ROOM to grow, and innovate, and ultimately to change. 





Once we have ‘survive’ under our belts, it’s up to us to choose what we do with the new perspective we’ve been given. 





It’s up to us to break down and break up what we thought we knew, decide what’s important, and rebuild ourselves, rewrite our values, our families, our communities, our society. 





And choose new words and ways to frame it all. New signifiers for what’s really significant. 





I hope you’re all ok. God, I hope I’m okay. It’s hard to tell, sometimes, isn’t it? 





Much love. 





Xx

					


	





	

								
A history of stockpiling
										

			12
			Thursday
			Nov 2020
		

	
	

		

			Posted  by  in Politics		

		

			≈ Leave a comment
		

	

						

	


			

					


		

			






There is a long and proud history of stockpiling in the wider Edge Dynasty. 





My mother didn’t have an Apocalypse Cupboard, exactly, but she did have a Just-In-Case cupboard. 





We were never sure what SORT of emergency she was preparing for, but I distinctly remember my father strongly objecting to discovering over 20 tins of tomatoes and probably at least the same number of bottles of Cif cream cleaner (then Jif), in their utility room. 





He wondered, at some volume, whether she was expecting to have to feed (and possibly clean) the entire FREAKING Russion Army on a surprise visit/invasion. Only he didn’t say freaking. 





My mother pretended to be penitent but bought another tin of tomatoes the very next week. I was there. At the time I was never sure if this was an act of defiance, or possibly comedy. 





Now I know it was an act of anxiety. 





More accurately, I suppose, it was an act of CONTROLLING anxiety. 





Not only does she STILL excel in accumulating things, the woman has also never knowingly thrown anything out, either. Up to and including tomatoes. Just in case. It might come in handy. You never know. Save it for best. Better to be safe than sorry. BACK-UP. 





Possibly that came from growing up working class in London, and never quite having enough. I don’t know. I do know that at one stage they DID have some sort of clear out – maybe five years ago – and I think the winner was some sort of tinned vegetable with a best before date of 1985. Very possibly tomatoes. 





I was reminded of this on a recent visit where I spotted this on a shelf. (Sorry, I didn’t have a Barbie on me). It is a film with a ‘best before date’ of December 1958. AMAZING, right? I mean, what’s on it? Where did it come from? What snapshots would we get of the world 62 years ago? 13 years post-war? Will it ever BE developed? Is it still developABLE? The possibilities are endless!!! 





The very fact they’ve kept this relic has got to cheer you up a little at least a bit. And boy, do we really need cheering up. Especially the anxious…





I inherited my anxiety from my mother, I think. It’s more genetic than it is learned, although experiences shape it. I was a good pupil, anyway.





The first time I started my own serious stockpile it was 2015, when I was afraid of Ebola. I was also pregnant with my rainbow baby, after a lot of painful procedures, and in the midst of a relationship crisis that, erm, didn’t end well. 





I was very much alone in my head. And my head wasn’t quite right. I knew it was all going to be snatched away from me, again, and this was what I fixated on. So I did what my mum would do, small actions to try to feel safe when everything is spinning out of control. I prepared. 





Oh, I didn’t buy safety tomatoes. But I did literally build up a stock of just-in-case gloves, you-never-know facemasks, back-up bin liners, and better-to-be-safe-than-sorry-bleach, in the garage. I found them around a year ago, clearing out to downsize during my divorce. I was embarrassed of myself, my paranoia. Now I kind of wish I’d kept them…





My head is better now, than it was then. So it’s NOT actually me buying up all of Sheffield’s loo rolls. Honest. But I do get it. People are scared. I’m scared. Because this time it looks like it might not just be paranoia, and the world might ACTUALLY be out to get us. 





I’m worried for the Smallest Small, a wee respiratory patient at the Children’s since she was 2. 





I’m worried for my Dad, who has just had two major surgeries and has no immune system. 





I’m worried that we’ll lose so many and so much from a generation made up of the sort of people who keep/acquire/collect/preserve undeveloped film from 1958. 





I’m worried for people on zero hours contracts, with no buffers, and few choices. 





I’m worried for the single parents, especially those without local support systems, and how they’ll cope. How I’ll cope.





I’m worried about actually living through in real time the first ten minutes of every zombie apocalypse movie I’ve ever seen. 





I’m worried what it all means for the world the smalls will grow up in (you know, hopefully).





The one thing I refuse to worry about any more is what people think about me being worried about Coronavirus. I’ve found the derision about coronavirus anxiety to be, well, vitriolic. But do you know what? Stoicism isn’t actually COOL, in and of itself. It’s not ‘just’ flu. It’s not ‘just’ the elderly who’ll be affected. It’s not ‘just’ a big fuss over nothing. It’s not ‘just’ a stiff upper lip and and a bit of gung ho that’s needed. 





Minimising the issue isn’t helping. In fact, at no time ever in the history of the world has saying ‘calm down’ ever calmed anyone down, or saying ‘don’t panic’ ever stopped anyone panicking. It just drives the anxious underground to be MORE anxious. Misery may love company, but anxiety LOVES solitude. And that’s when it gets to be a problem. 





So let’s talk sensibly and coherently about coronavirus, and about being WORRIED about coronavirus. Or, you know, terrified. Let’s come together to talk about our anxieties. Let the Anxious of the World Unite! 





After all, we’ll probably inherit the Earth anyway. We’re the ones with all the tomatoes. 





Look, it’s OKAY to be scared. A bit of fear – but not too much – is actually probably the most normal, sensible, and PROPORTIONAL response we can have right about now. And I think a BIT of preparation might be in order too. Socially Responsible Apocalypse Cupboards. 





So next time you’re in the supermarket, feel free to pick up an extra tin of tomatoes. Maybe it will make you feel a tiny bit safer. Maybe it will help you keep your anxiety under control. 





But also, maybe only pick up one or two, yeah? And maybe pick up one for your elderly neighbour, or donate one to a food bank. People are going to need them, and each other. (Possibly slow down on the loo roll, too). 





Being scared together is LESS scary than being scared alone. And coming together is going to be key in the coming weeks and months. I think maybe that’s something people living in post-war Britain in 1958 knew more about than we do. I just hope we don’t lose too many of them.

					


	





	

								
Are my children Trump supporters?
										

			31
			Tuesday
			Jan 2017
		

	
	

		

			Posted  by  in Humour, Motherhood, Parenting, Politics		

		

			≈ 1 Comment
		

	

						

	


			

					


		

			
are-my-children


Here is my evidence so far:


1. Placing restrictions on my reproductive rights

There’s very little as restricting on both one’s ability and will to partake in reproductive activities as expelling a whole human being from the reproductive bits in question, the following emotional and hormonal upheaval – and the consequent chronic exhaustion.


I’m pretty sure my Small People also have an inner sensor for the rare occasions such activities are contemplated, as they invariably choose those moments to cry inconsolably – or worse – visit.


2. Placing restrictions on my movements

I am not allowed, for instance, to move out of the line of sight of the smallest Small Person, who views any transgressions (such as weeing or making the tea) as highly suspicious, and an indication she needs to step up her surveillance levels to ‘limpet’.


3. Dislike of strangers

Neither child responds well to new people, especially if they look or dress a bit differently. They particularly disapprove of beards.


Red suits, sleigh travel and jolly laughter are also frowned (and screamed) upon – although this can occasionally be overcome by present-based bribery.


4. Conservatism and resistance to change

My kids like things to stay the same. Back like it was in the good old days – ie. yesterday. Woe betide anyone who interrupts their precious routine/regime. Miss one of the day’s expected milestones – like snack, milk or story – and you should expect…..


5. Meltdowns over perceived slights and wrongs

Today the Small Small was incandescent over the apparent injustice of my cutting up her fish fingers instead of leaving them whole – and hot enough to give her tongue second degree burns. If she could have taken to Twitter to vent her rage, she would have. She settled for throwing the offending fish fingers across the room and lying face down in the hall crying for 30 minutes.


6. They like building walls

They tell me they build the best walls. No one can build walls like they can. They know all about wall-building, and no, they don’t want any advice or assistance. (Their walls, are, by the way, shit).


Although to be fair to them, once they’ve built their walls they usually destroy them immediately afterwards.


7. They are certain they have all the best words

I am still trying to explain to the Big Small that no one is trying to hurt her ‘by a-liberate’. It’s either by accident or DELIBERATELY. This is a losing battle.


She may also be paranoid – also a Trumpism?


8. Gagging freedom of speech

Or at least screaming over it and/or conveniently refusing to hear it.


9. Approbation of and expertise in torture

I have now suffered five years of sound torture, psychological warfare and complex mind games. The worst thing, however, is their practice of unrelenting sleep deprivation.


On an average day I literally cannot remember my own name or speak in full sentences until I have imbibed at least four cups of strong coffee. I wear my clothes inside out to work. (They’ve stopped telling me out of either sympathy, embarrassment or fatigue – so now I find out halfway through the day when my bleary eyes can actually focus on the mirror in the toilets). I honest-to-God tried to feed the cat Cheerios instead of cat food this morning. Earlier this week I left my purse in the damn freezer.


Please send help.


10. Inconsistency

They back track, change their minds with alarming alacrity, and deny ever having held any other viewpoint despite all of the compelling evidence to the contrary.


“I wanted the pink cup! No the blue one! I said pink! Not that pink one! WHY AREN’T YOU LISTENING TO ME??? Bluuuuuueeee!”


11. Poor spelling

The Big Small is new to literacy, and not a fan. On the occasions she is persuaded to read and write, her phonetic spelling is definitely Trump-worthy. She recently put a label on a stuffed cat that read ‘ckety’ (kitty).


12. Repeating catchphrases

Less ‘America First’ and more:

“It’s not fair!”

“She started it!”

“I don’t like my Mummy!”

“Eeew- Diss-gust-in!”

“Nooooooooo!”

“More Peppa Piiiiiiiig!”


13. Pointing

Usually accompanied by “Dat one. Want dat one, Mama.”


14. They don’t believe in climate change

To be honest, they don’t really get the whole weather thing. If it’s raining out the front of they’ll go check round the back. This is consistently disappointing.


15. They peddle ‘alternative facts’ with aplomb

“I didn’t push her Mummy! I just moved her off the sofa with my bottom.”


16. They zealously protect their own interests

Which often leads to:


17. Indifference to domestic violence

Which they practice on each other at regular intervals. (Before attempting 15).


18. They like to grab me by the pussy

Well, ok, not the pussy, I admit. But the arm, leg, boob, hair and neck are all fair game, certainly. And then they just start kissing me. They don’t even wait. They can do anything.


I’m pretty just an object to them.


19. They believe if they behave in an extreme enough manner for long enough, they will either inure me to their misdemeanors or wear me down so I’m too tired to continue to protest them.

Sadly this belief is not without foundation. See no 9.


20. Wild hair

The Small Small, at least, still has some baby fuzz left. First thing in the morning it looks remarkably like a Trump quiff.


21. Pouting

Let’s just say that if my children were to walk into a wall, their bottom lips would hit it first.


22. They think Trump/s is/are pretty clever and amusing


23. Tiny hands


I rest my case.


I think it’s clear that my children are natural born Trump supporters and I am harbouring closet fascists right here in Sheffield.


Either that, or the President of the United States acts like a huge, orange child, and we’re all completely fucked.


Anyway, I plan to swap out ‘The Gruffalo’ for ‘The Communist Revolution’ this evening, just in case.


Remember, we must resist the children, however cute they may be when sleeping. They can take our freedom, but they will never take our… Never mind. They pretty much take everything. 


Mumonthenetheredge