Thursday, 16 August 2012


Last week, my seven-year-old daughter seemed troubled.

“Mummy, why are you the only mummy on the street with fur sticking out of your arms?” she said.

She was looking at my armpits in a hurt, disgusted way, as if I had Tufty the Squirrel in a headlock.

I was too knackered to explain to her that contrary to public opinion, all sexually mature women grow hair on their bodies, and that many of them have more hair growing from their armpits and minges than Sasquatch. I was also too knackered to explain to her that the pressure on women to shave, pluck, tweeze, wax, and zap every single hair on their body until they look like pre-pubescent girls is just sinister sexist bullshit dreamed up in the 1920s by those absolute motherfuckers at Gilllete. But the main reason I didn’t challenge her was that I’m sensitive enough to realise that to a small hairless child, a thousand colossal tufts of armpit hair probably looks like the kind of place where witches meet. 

“I’ll shave it off if it bothers you”, is all I said.

That night, I wiped the dust from my razor blade and began the process of revealing my inner child goddess. I fantasised about the prospect of social inclusion; about a future featuring Summer Essentials like strappy tops and pretty Boden dresses, cute bikinis and spray tans. I indulged the idea that my legs might even resemble the rock star pins of Gillette’s new 'global ambassador' for female empowerment (and the undisputed universal role model for all women) Jennifer Lopez. Obviously.

Afterwards, there was a brief bummer of a moment when I got pissed off thinking that my daughters might turn around when they’re eleven and demand that I buy them gigantic tubes of Veet, just so that they can depilate themselves ‘back to normal’ and so avoid a) being called gorilla or monkey trousers on the school bus or b) being chased around by people carrying nets and animal tranquilisers. I got even more pissed off at the idea that when they’re battling with issues around self-image and self-confidence, they’ll also have to contend with a whole load of creepy fascist shit about body hair.  But that’s because I’m a total sourpuss and a hairy man-hating lesbo feminist, and I like to suck the fun out of life.

The following day, I showed my daughter my fuzz-free pits. I thought she’d be happy.  Instead, she looked down at her own arms.  

“I’ve don’t like the hair on my arms”, she said. “It’s too brown.” 

Make that seven, not eleven. 

Tuesday, 7 August 2012


I haven’t blogged in a while. These are the reasons:

The Summer Holidays:  We’re all going on a summer holiday, tra la la la la la la tra la la … Oh, hang on a minute, what I actually meant to say was we’re NOT going on a summer holiday. Duh! Thing is, my partner is working 12-hour days for the duration of the summer holidays, so I’m staying right here, in the house, for six and a half weeks, with a gazillion children.  Yeah, don’t worry, I’ve got enough food in! Sure I’ll keep the windows open so that there’s enough air n’all! And best of all, my mum’s coming up for a couple of days so no worries! It’ll be nonstop fun I’m telling ya!!

Lack of stimuli:  Hey, even if I did have a minute to write a blog in between all the crazy fun times, I wouldn’t know what to write. You see, during the summer holidays, the children operate Amish-style house rules that forbid me from consuming news or current affairs programmes, surfing the Internet, reading books, or exchanging views with other adults, unless it’s my mother. Weirdly, I am allowed to take phone calls from my mother. This is because the kids - the cheeky little rascals –they’re hoping my mum will provoke me into doing something super-funny like, oh I dunno, writing ‘I Know I’m Not Special’ in permanent red marker all the way down my legs! As if, kids! You crazy cats!

Technical shit: and to top it all, my computer died on me. The right thing would be to say that my computer has gone to computer heaven with all the other little computers and angels, but frankly, my computer was an utter cunt, so I doubt it. There was one brief moment of reconciliation when it saved something precious without Unexpectedly Quitting, which made me so emotional about the good times, I cried. But if I’m honest, there was already too much resentment in the mix, too much anger, and the idea that my desktop might now be bobbing away in an everlasting lake of hellfire, protesting about fatal errors and 'changes that have been made that affect the global template' is, in truth, not too difficult to bear.

Which brings me very neatly to the next reason…  

PMS that won’t go away: For about three weeks now, I’ve been getting really bad PMS. Horrible nightmarish PMS. The kind of PMS that wouldn’t go away even if you took a billion grams of evening primrose oil, poured it into a biodegradable butt plug, shoved it up your asshole, and then left it there forever.

And, as you can imagine, blogging is not possible when you’re in the middle of a PMS episode of such severity. Neither is any kind of mental activity that requires focus. On a more positive note – and it’s important to count your blessings - there is a whole world of shit out there that I could be doing; activities that are perfectly suited to prolonged PMS episodes; such as drinking gin, eating like a pig, shouting like a total fuck, contemplating the atrophying of my aspirations, and putting all the furniture in the house into self-storage to reduce the clutter (and the smell).

Happy holidays campers!