Scar Tissue

I was a clumsy kid; some things don’t change.  I’ve lost count of the fractures I accumulated in my early years, but it never bothered me.  At that age you attained almost celebrity status once that magical cast was set over your damaged limb.  Suddenly kids you never knew couldn’t wait to pen their name... Continue Reading →

The Hand That Rocks The Cradle

Fear not, I’m not a disgraced medical professional’s widow on the warpath.  For one, the last time I went blonde I resembled a mangy rescued mongrel after having to cut out chunks of matted hair with the kitchen scissors, and secondly, my sanity can barely withstand over an hour at a soft play centre with... Continue Reading →

Mummy Guilt

I suppose the correct universal term is ‘parent guilt’ but stuff the PC brigade, I’m going to be gender specific and divulge my understanding of the blasted mummy guilt. I do concede it is an imposed assumption of wrongdoing that afflicts both parties once you take ownership of a mini-person. The truth is, my first... Continue Reading →

Grey Worm

I know what you’re thinking; what does that fitty from GoT have to do with accepting your body, but that exquisite example of prime time jailbait is the namesake for my pelvic floor tear which for years I avoided touching, let alone braving the mirror #thelaceswereintheywerein (honestly it looked like a blind man had used... Continue Reading →

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