I’m hiding my tears behind a newspaper and the occasional manufactured cough. But I don’t know why I’m bothering, because the woman on the sofa mostly has her eyes shut, and even when she doesn’t, has no interest at all in me. She is my mother. Continue reading Mama Mia
I can’t, and I don’t seem to want to. For a while perhaps I thought my husband would do that for me. I abdicated that responsibility, if I ever held it. Maybe briefly. Before that it was my dad, I suppose. And before that, I can only assume, my mother, when it was just a case of nappy changing and so on. Continue reading Waaah! I Can’t Look After Myself!
In the wake of all the chatter, horror, outrage and ridicule concerning the recent US election, my mother’s remark hit me like a sledgehammer. Continue reading At Least He’s a Man
Tears, not rolling, but pouring down my cheeks. Continue reading Like a Phantom Limb
The decorators have nearly finished. Continue reading Using a Cock as a Doorstop
A fully grown and scarily articulate woman says she is turning four. Continue reading Turning 4
Last night they searched our bags as we entered the building, which is unusual when you are going to a movie in a London suburb. Continue reading Mommie Dearest