flossing the cat

Today, I have been mostly thinking about the pros and cons of working from home, which I’d like to share. I'll begin with the bad news:  1. Working from home can mean extensive periods of isolation, leading to a catastrophic degeneration of socio-personal skills. In extreme circumstances, this can mean going to ridiculous lengths to avoid human contact, such as using the sewer network to get to the post office, or leaping from branch to branch in the overhead tree canopy to avoid footpaths.    2. Conversely, working from home can also mean getting so ridiculously over-excited at the possibility of human contact, that when the postman delivers a parcel, you end up speaking in the jumbled, rapid manner of a psychotic:     ME: Oh, hi, sorry I took ages ... I was upstairs in the bathroom … Ha ha ha! Ooh! I’m so out of breath though ... can’t believe how unfit I am ... still, what’s it like OUT THERE? Haven’t been OUT today! Ha ha ha! Ha ha ha! Least it’s not raining thou

Everyone remembers their first kiss, right? For me, the story involves a widowed second cousin-in-law, twice-removed, who lived in Carmarthenshire with some other cousins, who went by the name of Great Auntie Maud. (Fuck knows why I’m specifying the exact degree of kinship of those involved.) Suffice it to say that Great Auntie Maud was as old as Methuselah, and may have even been a childhood friend of his. Anyhoo, one day, during one particular visit to our cousins’ home, Great Auntie Maud shot up from her armchair as we were leaving, and stood in the doorway, blocking our exit. “Give Auntie Maud a kiss goodbye then”, she said, turning to me. I was thirteen and three-quarters at the time. And although kissing somebody was on my bucket list, Great Auntie Maud looked nothing like a) Andrew Ridgeley from Wham, b) John Taylor, the bass guitarist from Duran Duran, or c) Stephen Jones from Form 3C, who were the usual objects of my kissing fantasies. “What you waiting fo

Let me get one thing straight. In spite of my buffed appearance, I am NOT a gym bunny. I loathe exercise more than I loathe Facebook updates about exercise.   I loathe exercise more than I loathe the new iWatch. I loathe exercise more than I loathe the idea of shitting on the pavement in full view of the world’s media, which is also to say that if I’d been the one running the London Marathon in 2005, shitting on the pavement would have been the highlight of my race, Paula. All of which makes my recent love affair with an exercise bike, frankly, disturbing.  It all began a few weeks ago, during an episode of PMS so severe that not even smashing the kitchen up – normally a marvellous stress-buster – would have worked. So, having read that exercise was good for regulating hormones, I approached the exercise bike gathering dust in the study. “Hello Mr Bike!” I said, brightly, hoping he’d forgive the years of neglect. “Are you pleased to see me or is that just a massive he

Once upon a time, when I was a not-so-sweet sixteen year old, I quit shaving my legs.  I can’t remember the exact reason - it was probably more to do with youthful contrarianism than feminism – but I do remember that unlike other acts of teenage rebellion, my shaggy young forelegs were a transgression too far.    “No gorillas in the back seat!” shouted a handsome sixth-former (on whom I’d had a long-standing crush) as I boarded the school bus, his face so full of fear and confusion it was as though I’d rocked up the aisle in a witch’s hat and bikini top, a giant veiny dildo strapped to my skirt, roaring I’M HERE, I’M HAIRY, I WANT TO FUCK YOU. Backwards. And at double speed.  Exiled to the front of the bus to sit with the first-formers, I reconsidered my options, which were a) continue the experiment in not shaving and risk being stoned to death in the schoolyard, or b) conform to the fucked-up idea that says women must not be allowed to thrive in their natural state, because

My father in law is a good sort: generous, good-humoured, sincere. But frankly, when it comes to women’s issues, he is all kinds of fucking dinosaur. “Paternity leave! Bloody ridiculous!” he exclaimed the other day, while reading the paper.     Now normally, for the sake of family cohesion, I let things like this go: Father-in-law: Global warming is bloody rubbish! Me: Sheesh! You’re sooo  craze !!   But whatever …  Father in law: Brawn is bloody delicious! Not like that foreign muck. Me:   Mmm. It does sound tasty. (A terrine of meat jelly made of a pig’s head and pig’s tongue also known as head cheese … what’s NOT to like?)    But the notion that paternity leave is bloody ridiculous got right on my mildreds. As far as yours truly is concerned, the  new legislation on shared parental leave  may well be the single most important piece of legislation in the struggle to achieve workplace equality in a decade, forcing employers who currently look upon women of chi

So, gals, here's the thing.  A couple of weeks ago, I discovered I suffer from a previously unknown condition called 'simia cervux' ( to give it its Latin name), meaning my cervix is basically a monkey. This shocking discovery was made during a routine smear test, when the practice nurse, having pried me open with an icy metal speculum THIS big (the bronze vaginal dilators of ancient Rome are an excellent reference point), made an  exasperated announcement. “Cheeky little monkey your cervix, isn’t she!”     As always I tried to make light of things. "Ha ha! Maybe try banana on top of the swab?!” I said. Like a twat. She shot me one of those weary “not again” looks that people usually reserve for moments when they a) step in dog shit or b) hear something Michael Gove said. Which is very fucking annoying, as it was she who brought the monkey into the conversation in the first place. I'm not a fucking vet, love.  Of course, this isn’t the fi

(from The Extremely Over-Protective Mummy's Handbook)  Everybody knows that there are two kinds of nipple.  The first kind of nipple looks like a nipple, or, perhaps, a kitten's nose. Gentle but perky, with a hint of moist juiciness, it is usually attached to what family newspaper editors* like David  Dinsmore  like to call hooters,  funbags ,  or chumbawombas. It can also be seen on a daily basis through pretty much anything worn by Rihanna or Beyonce.  The second kind of nipple, conversely, looks  like something you might find stuck to your shoe i.e chewing gum.  Often the result of extreme breastfeeding, which in the UK means breastfeeding for more than three days, it could also (apparently) be mistaken for an attack of ringworm, or a scary witch's teat, which is why y ou never see it featured in newspapers, magazines, campaign billboards, or on the catwalks at New York Fashion Show .  Not so long ago, I was confronted by a nip of the second variety   on

When I was a kid, I used to love space hoppers.   Or, to borrow modern-day parlance, I used to heart them.  I loved their weird, rabbity, scrunched-up faces; their funny, whimsical, gormlessness. I loved their plump orange bodies, and their ribbed little ears, and the smell and feel of them, and the way they lay there, on your lawn, all forlorn-looking. But, as always, shit happens. Or, as the philosopher and visionary thinker Samuel L Jackson famously put it, snakes on a plane man, snakes on a plane!  And now, the sad fact of the matter is that I fucking hate space hoppers. I do not heart them AT ALL.   In short, those orange FATSOS are on my shit list. It was a love affair that ended suddenly, traumatically, at my daughter’s ninth birthday party. The party - billed by our host venue, the local Bowlplex, as the Ultimate Birthday Bash - started well enough, with unlimited bowling, ‘sharing’ party platters, and a ‘glow bowling’ disco atmosphere, offering no