The wanderer returns.

Yes I have been AWOL, MIA and all the other terms you associate with someone dropping off the face of the earth where no contact has been made with them since they were last seen in a shoe shop, trying on enough shoes to comprise a pile of boxes the size of the leaning tower of Pisa.

Needless to say I am alive. I am well. I have not joined a cult. I have not yet started to consider life as a nun. Yes I own more shoes, grey hairs, cellulite and potential enemies due to my at times highly pragmatic personality. But overall all is well.

Why the blogging break? Simple I re-read some of my posts and they were not great. It was more ranting than blogging and to be honest it was not pretty, informative, enlightening, funny or any other description involving a positive adjective.

My first sabbatical didn’t really do the trick so I decided an extended one was required. You know the old expression – if at first you don’t succeed, try again. So I decided I would. Here’s hoping it has worked as a blog is coming your way very soon.





The school gate!

School gate mothers or should I say school playground mothers as the behaviour from some is far more like that of children of playground age rather than that of fully grown women.

Now you may wonder what I am doing at the school gate? Simple, my stepdaughter is in top juniors – retro description I know, year 6 for those of you modern types. So at least two days a week, sometimes more, I do the pick up. Or as I like to say, face the catwalk of silence.

A catwalk, yes, as that is what it’s like, a fashion catwalk. Now I like fashion more than most, fifty pairs of shoes and counting, a subscription to Elle and Grazia magazine, you get the picture! But what I see amazes me. This place where these women bearing the motherhood badge of honour unite to contest who is the biggest motherhood martyr of all, also appear to spend a lot of time and money on their overall ‘look’. Who knew the burning martyr shopped at Harvey Nichols, Selfridges and Topshop?

I describe it as the silent version, as it is, well for me at least. I do not utter a word or rather get the opportunity to. I am not deaf and dumb, or in possession of a highly trained golden retriever to guide me through life, hence maybe missing their advances for conversation. I get blanked, blatantly, often with no attempt to hide it. Some women acknowledge my stepdaughter by name and just look right through me. Who knew I was not only mute, but also invisible?

Others do acknowledge me with a stare or glare. I am a poet and did not know it! Again I am not being sensitive, they do. I think at present there is more chance of me meeting a talking dodo than there is that some of these women looking at me in a friendly manner despite my best efforts, I smile at them REGULARLY. DAILY. I am not rude.

Even my accidental attempt to conform by purchasing the trendy school gate mothers designer trainer of choice, aaaargh – what is happening to me???!!! – does not seem to be doing anything to get my foot in the door of the club if you know what I mean!

Still in reality am I bothered? No, and I really mean it. I listen to some of the conversations and cringe. Ailments, hygiene, educational analysis, sporting prowess. If these women were men you might say the discussions of their children resembled a big dick contest. It’s one upmanship at its peak. Pushy mothers. Shoot me now!

I just find it all so petty, to ignore someone like this. I mean I have not pulled a Myleene and dared to challenge them en mass in public. I stole nobody’s husband. It’s just plain bitchy, a clique resembling the masons where Delboy and I alike are blackballed and blocked from joining anytime soon.

What’s more I have done nothing to be treated like this. They do not know me or rather very little of me. I am younger than most but why would that cause it, I have friends of all ages. Are they all shy? Their behaviours suggest not. Nor do many of them lack confidence. So what is it? Do stepmothers who muck in and show they care intimidate them? It seems it might be the case.

Well it’s this or I have terrible body odour and bad breath and am completely clueless about both. But I very much doubt it. I shower. I brush my teeth. I spray a lot of deodorant and perfume on my person at regular intervals.

Also consider this. These women have stood and spoken to each other, morning and night, five days in seven, for over seven years. I thought someone new might be of interest to them I mean what do they find to talk about? I know we British women can chit chat complete bollocks with the best of them but this is pushing anyone’s limit for mindless chatter surely?

So here we are, nearly at the end of another term. A break from it all is looming, the Easter hols is not far off. Then the summer term beckons, which leaves me with maybe eight weeks of the catwalk to endure. I am literally counting down the days.

I admit defeat. I give up. I get it. I will never be in the gang and happy to be so. But one thing is for sure. My new trendy trainers are going nowhere I just love them too much and nothing comes between me and my shoes, NOT even the school gate mother social leper treatment.

Me, the wicked stepmother – what a load of rubbish!


You know they say you should never self-diagnose illnesses on the internet. Well, the same rule applies to tests which tell you the kind of stepmother you are. NEVER EVER DO THEM.

I learnt this too late. Too late, by exactly the time it took to take the test twice. Yes I did the test twice. Like doctors and medical conditions, it’s never a bad idea to get a second opinion. Well it was here. Prepare yourselves. Wait for it. Here we go. On both occasions I was described as a wicked stepmother. WTF??

What a load of bollocks I told myself after the first attempt, as I found, staring back at me from the small screen, the image of Snow White’s stepmother with the caption ‘Get therapy NOW’. Which is exactly why I re-did the test for the second time. I clearly did not care about the test results. WRONG. I cared a lot. Too much as bloody usual. I am frequently a complete idiot.

So what was so critical in the test which formed a realistic appraisal of my stepmother skills? Basically bugger all. It referenced my likes and dislikes on the following: fashion, make up, music, exercise/sport, how I express opinions, holidays and yes my favourite housework!

Based on the final question it was like the mother in law had written it all to catch me out and finally get me ironing everything from the little shits shirts to my very small under crackers.

I mean, what relevance are any of those things on my stepmother behaviour? Zero. Zip. Nada.

Yes I take care in my appearance, read a lot of gossip and fashion magazines and believe housework is not a priority but how does that make me a bad stepmother? It does not. How are any of those things applicable to step mothering skills for the good or bad? They are not.

I suppose if I was the Mother Theresa of stepmothers I might have chosen some more child friendly answers but in truth there were not many that I could see. Hence my second attempt.

For instance holidays I liked exotic locations, the other choices being camping in the woods, child free holidays or cultural city breaks. It was clear, the assumption was made that anything other than camping in the woods, the mother earth answer to holidays, meant without kids. I mean who wrote this test – a cynical bitter ex-wife who likes to analyse stepmother behaviour through anything but rose tinted glasses?

I love exotic locations. I love my stepchildren. I like the two together hence why we honeymooned in Barbados with the kids. ‘SO THERE’ with my tongue out in an aggressive fashion.

If I were the wicked stepmother would I treat my stepdaughters wart infested feet? No.

Would I brave the dreaded nit comb? So frequently may I add that I ended up infested myself? No.

Would I tackle conversations on the birds and the bees, worms – yes you know that lovely thing little kids get, sweaty feet, why you need to bathe regularly and basically anything else that is thrown at me? No.

And I could go on but I won’t as I do not want to look like an evil minded, ranting, mad woman. Well no more than usual.

I am a good stepmother. I know I sound confident and probably a little cocky but it’s true. Maybe this is not an attractive quality but it’s a necessity. Why? Simple. As any stepmother will vouch, the critiques come thick and fast and well if you do not believe in yourself and your own capabilities, there is no hope of survival without the need for a good therapist to recover from the frequent, overly critical and often highly personal character assassinations you seem to encounter.

But anyway onwards and upwards. I am putting the test to the back of my mind and only getting my stepdaughters to clean the kitchen floor once a week with their toothbrushes! Ha ha ha ha ha (wicked laugh).

In truth the only test I need to pass is a simple one. The test of whether my stepdaughters like me, thank me and most importantly what the little shit thinks. And so far, most of the time, so good and all seem happy.

Job done.

P.S. The bit about the kitchen floor and toothbrushes was a joke. No need to contact social services.

The invisible woman

invisible woman

It is often said in life if you are given lemons, to make lemonade.

This is a good analogy. It’s basically the idea to make the best of everything. Just if you really are going to make lemonade, follow a good recipe with plenty of sugar or you will resemble a bulldog chewing a wasp!

So recently I have at long last decided to do the same with my alter ego. To down a glass of it and embrace the afterglow!

So who is she, my alter ego, drum roll please…….she is ‘The invisible woman’. Why? Simple. I am to certain individuals to be seen, just not in public, no sorry I will amend that, anywhere, not even the front doorstep of my own home. My voice should never be heard. My name cannot be uttered, let alone put in a text message for necessary arrangements. My physical form is required only when there really is NO alternative for childcare.

It’s a FACT. A sad fact. It is not the ranting’s of one hysterical or bitter stepmother. These descriptions really do outline the treatment I receive. However, these actions are all a certain individuals choice not mine, might I add in any way, shape or invisible form. Everybody knows it. It is the proverbial big, glowing, pink elephant in the room.

It is unpleasant. It is unfair on the children. I have tried to improve things, but it’s like flogging a dead horse and well eventually even I, someone who rarely gives up on anything, has thrown in the towel. The little shit similarly. We play the game. We avoid pouring oil on the fire. We are not defeated. We are just being clever.

I can hear some mumblings now. Why do it that way? Why not put your foot down? Been there. Done that. The kids have worn the t-shirt and quite frankly that is the worst bit. It is the kids that suffer. Emotional upset. Forced choices. A guilty conscience. Resentment. Confusion. You get the picture. I will not be the cause of any of these emotions.

Besides if I really am the invisible woman, I may as well flaunt it. She was several people across a number of stories. My favourite. The super hero!

Therefore I will mostly be channelling my inner ‘Sue Storm’ of the ‘Fantastic Four’. She was sexy, Jessica Alba sexy to be more precise, rocked a near perfect body in a skin tight, blue, cat suit. A force for good, she was intelligent, well liked and loved by her family.

So maybe being invisible is not such a bad thing after all. There is like the lemons and lemonade many positives to be seen from my invisible status. And as a wise woman once said, it is not the opinion that matters but who holds it. Enough said.

Oh and of course, if you see a woman in a blue cat-suit on the school run you will know who I really am! #newuniform

I’m back!


It’s exactly five weeks, three days, 12 hours, 52 minutes and various seconds since I blogged. Crap or what? Well in a positive way it’s actually a ‘what’. As basically having set up my own business I have been too busy to blog.

I also think I peaked too soon – I blogged twice in one day at one point!

So what is the real reason for my extended writing holiday?

Well its simple. you see I no longer have hours to kill at a desk, in a communal office, where I need to look like I am actually working as opposed to surfing the internet like a cyber-loafing, free loading, idle idiot.

As they say every cloud has a silver lining. The cloud being the lack of blogging, not the successful business bit.

I also have to be honest, I have struggled to know what to write about. A lot of things have gone on. Some mundane, some not so. Some firsts but definitely not lasts in terms of various scenarios. And well some things have very much remained the same but in a heightened, more reoccurring fashion.

At times gin seemed the only way forward. The shame being it was 10am on a Monday morning and well drinking behaviour like that is a slippery slope. And besides with my work load I did not have time to give it real decision making time and energy, i.e. making a list of pros and cons and therefore how to write about it.

Yes I am well and truly cryptic blogging. So let’s cut to the chase.

My blogging sabbatical is over. All change from here on in. I will be blogging again regularly with gusto. So watch this space.

Is there a ‘I love page three’ t-shirt I can buy?


Page three, on and off like a light switch. Firstly there was a no-show then a, true to form, chest first reappearance. The tits did the talking so to speak back to their rightful place, on page three. I still in truth cannot believe that it causes such horror, annoyance and bad press. Whatever you want to call it I just cannot get excited or rather offended by it and the silly protest against it.

I mean really, let’s look at this in the bigger picture of life, the world, and the lives of women. Page three apparently objectifies us. Rubbish. We as women are objectified 24/7. You walk down the street, the hairy bottomed builders whistle and taunt. You are at the gym, the meat head muscle bound numpty’s are looking or shall I say leering. Heck even your fellow kind objectify you. Women are each other’s worst critic.

Women are objectified. Always. It’s a fact. It’s part of being a woman. Page three is a very public example of it. But like the builders wolf whistling, it’s actually harmless. There are no seedy pimps bullying and controlling anyone, these booby blessed girls choose to do it. Topless modelling is a career they embrace, love and make lucrative earnings from.  I mean isn’t that what feminism is all about, freedom of choice? Doing what we choose not what society dictates we should? Earning our own crust?

Besides men are portrayed in a similar vain to that of page three on occasion. Heat magazine has ‘torso of the week’. Beckham and those underwear adverts. The Chippendales and of course, the movie ‘The Full Monty’. Are men offended? No.

In a week where two qualified medical professionals, doctors to be exact, faced court after carrying out genital mutilation on a female patient, should we not be focussing on the bigger picture of matters such as these which are quite frankly appalling and should not be happening in any way shape or form? Surely this is slightly more important or am I going mad?

And there are bigger, pressing matters yet. Domestic violence. Human trafficking. Vulnerable girls being groomed for sex by large groups of predatory men. There is a massive and ever increasing amount of child porn material available on line. And speaking of porn. If page three objectifies us what does all that readily available porn that many teenage boys view nightly do to us? The violent kind. The completely degrading kind. I wonder.

Why are we not campaigning on these matters? Why are the brave bunch who took on The Sun not channelling their energies into these far more important matters? It appears that modern feminism is about equal choice for women in everything even if it’s not really relevant. If it’s not page three, it’s top jobs in certain industries. Maybe women choose not to work in said ‘anti-female’ industries, or dare I say it, maybe our strengths lie elsewhere. It’s not a bad thing. It’s not anti-feminism. It’s just life.

I ask you, are male doctors offended when we specify a female doctor to talk about our lady troubles. How many male midwives are there and if you got one when your vagina was about to double in size would you feel comfortable about it? Let’s be honest probably not. Are the men complaining? Well we know the answer.

Remember the book, ‘Men are from mars, women are from Venus’ well it was written and titled as such for a good reason. We are opposites and for the good of jobs, life choices and everything else sometimes despite all this new equality for women stuff we need to stick to it. Accept it. Maybe even embrace it. It’s a good thing.

And finally on the notion of being topless, and it being banned. Does this apply on the beach? I am starting to worry about my tan lines. Should big movies be banned if they feature a topless shot? I think of Jamie Lee Curtis in ‘Trading Places’ to name but one. Female icons who strip off, are they to be bullied? Madonna and Nikki Minaj to name a few are well published example of celebs doing boobies. Are we going to apply the no topless rule to these and countless other scenarios?

This proves how ridiculous this whole campaign is. Women actually campaigned for freedom of speech and here we are actually campaigning for examples of this to cease.

I will leave it there. The Sun and its page three is harmless. I applaud people who campaign, the time, the energy, you are amazing. But I will say one thing. In the anti-female world, there are bigger fish which need to be fried. So let’s go swim with the sharks and really make a difference where it is actually needed. (And yes I checked that sharks are actually types of fish.)

Happiness is eating and farting!

This week I have been married 9 months. All say aaaaaaaaah! It is a modern miracle let alone the modern fairytale I let you read earlier this week.

It has been great, life changing, confidence building and most of all flatulence inducing. Yes one of the biggest things has been finally, after nearly five years together, breaking wind in peace to a small audience. Finally being given the green light to let out a rasper in front of the other half. It is so liberating.

That wedding band I wear, well two of them, gave me the confidence to do it and not worry about being dumped for non-lady like behaviour. I mean who ever heard of divorce due to human produced gas explosions.

Hey do not judge its human and when you have reverse ventilation issues like I do, trust me, this is big! This is not ground breaking but wind breaking!

The other big thing is food. Getting married, in fact cohabiting for 3 years prior prevented starvation. My starvation. Or rather me turning into a life sized hard boiled egg.

Prior to living with the little shit I literally lived off eggs, scrambled eggs, boiled not poached eggs, an occasional scotch egg, pasta, toast, stir fry and a few more eggs. That’s a lie. Large bottles of Becks beer and spinach and Ricotta cheese pizza on a Saturday night were also menu options of choice.

My love of eggs was once so great that with an ex boyfriend I owned several chickens! The idea was to sell the produce. In truth I ate them all.

No wonder when I was more Bridget Jones, less wicked Cheshire stepmother my flatulence was worse! Egg fuelled flatulence is like super charged unleaded petrol. You get a lot more for your money!

You see I no longer starve or have share options with the fresh egg company as the little shit is a feeder. This ‘feeding’ is not the stuff of weird dating websites. He is a healthy normal weight and I am nowhere near an obese state. Well unless you refer to the anorexics scale then I am massive! No he loves to cook.

It’s sexy. Well that’s a lie. Its a necessity and sexy, as otherwise the kids growth would be stunted and well my flatulence would be even worse from my immense, continuos, huge consumption of eggs in various guises. It was ok living solo to be the equivalent of a human whoopee cushion but not for a loving family environment.

So as I sit here on another Sunday night awaiting my made from scratch steak and ale stew with potato croquettes for tea, I also breathe a sigh of relief that my days of cooking like Bridget Jones and the famous blue soup are over.

There is one small downside. All this #antijan eating, drinking and thinking is great but I am a vain bitch who likes to stay under a size 12. So all this feeding that I get has not done much for the size of my ass. I am a stone heavier than when he first cooked me steak with Béarnaise sauce. But on the positive a portion of it is in my now nicely enlarged breasts. #cloud #silverlinings

Hence I am frequenting the gym. Often it is part of my daily routine. So much so little shit recently asked me if I was having an affair? He was of course joking. Maybe I should tell him the truth. Vanity rules and yes I may now occasionally fart like a rhino in front of him, and be good with it, but the thought of getting too voluptuous in front of him is too much to bear.

So yes marriage is fabulous. Honesty reigns…….well in most things just not my vain side or rather my more voluptuous vain side.


Posess and control? #madness

A very wise friend, a daughter of an avid Buddhist type, once said that ‘all our problems are caused by our desire to possess and control’. When she first said it, I did not believe it. But then I thought about it and the penny dropped. It’s so true, it’s scary.

When you initially consider it you think of it as monetary. Yes money. We are told L’argent, as the French call it, is power. Power ultimately leads to being in control. Money also gains you stuff or ‘possessions’. You can shop till you drop.

But what else does it apply to? Well everything. Friendships, relationships, shopping habits, fitness plans, diets, dog handling, cooking, nail painting, bikini waxing, dry January, sugar detoxing and my favourite……parenting.

Taboo I know, after all I am not a parent. But I figure I can comment as I witness parenting first hand, daily, hourly, in various guises, at the school gate, supermarket, bus stop, parties, you name it, it surrounds me. I also deal with parental emotions first hand being a stepmother. You see what it really does to someone when they only see their kids half the time, for the good and bad.

From experience, looking in from the childless world I navigate, to have a child, is to many, like having the ultimate possession. They are priceless, one of a kind so it appears many feel the need to behave in accordance with this. Think security which tops that used on the Crown Jewels.

Parenting is seemingly all about control. That’s reasonable. In many cases, it has to be. The child’s safety, health and happiness often depends on it. However, like the control on the Queens favourite hat, sometimes it’s control gone mad. Control for the bad, the obsessive. The ‘crap on anyone you see fit along the way’ kind of controlling behaviour. Think pushy parents, tiger mothers and the ultimate, mother of the bride. All controlling. All barking mad.

I know what you are thinking, that this is a biased perspective from someone who knows shit as she is not a biological parent. Maybe so. But like Tim Wilcox BBC journalist, or maybe not for much longer, I am entitled to an opinion. Just as he touched on Jewish behaviour I can touch on parenting.

But is it all healthy? What I refer to is this attitude. Possess and control. Possess and control. Possess and control. It’s like watching the Dalek’s on Doctor Who. It’s crazy. It’s a possession alright, a human possession of the psychotic, irrational kind. Intelligent individuals, even some very dear friends, quite literally have leave of any kind of sensible, common sense behaviour when it comes to their kids.

I thought parenting was a selfless thing, ‘it’s all about the kids’ I am frequently told. Well I’m sorry for many it’s not. Or rather it is an attempt that often fails miserably. It’s more about them. They have to be owner and chief. Their way or the highway. Give the kids a break.

The desire to control the kids, their behaviours, their whereabouts, even when they take a number two it appears, come what may, no matter what continent you the parent might actually be in is paramount. It is a painful thing to watch, let alone be on the receiving end of. I mean do I need to text you the lunch menu so you can agree their food choices whilst we holiday in the jungles of Bolivia?

If it were a movie, it would be ‘sleeping with the enemy’. The kids will however end up like Julia Roberts, throwing themselves overboard to escape, if you continue to be so controlling.

Or worse still they will turn into control freaks themselves. Remember the concept of learned behaviour??

So obsessive parents, why not let them be. After all they often have two parents. The ‘left home alone with the kids’ parents are more often than not savvy and capable. Some kids even have a bonus parent like me who is equally in possession of a working brain with common sense as a bonus skill. So wherever you are globally, even Outer Mongolia, staying on the side of said country with no phone lines, no transport links aside from donkeys and a population of five, four humans and said donkey, your child will be well looked after in your absence.

Furthermore, you will only cause trouble whilst trying to run your own life and everybody else’s simultaneously. It would be a pain in the ass if you did this without a 12 hour time difference let alone with one. Remember, nobody likes a control freak. FACT!

What’s more the kids themselves, like all dogs, need to get off the leash sometimes and do as they will. But hopefully not pee against a lamp post or shit on the pavement. Let them go. Let them do their own arranging. They will not forget you, they might even appreciate you more when they realise how much stuff you actually do for them.

And if they don’t, well you can tweet, text, snapchat or BBM them incessantly till they return. I have also heard satellites are cheap to hire now if you really want to stalk them in style. Helicopters can also be rented by the hour.

This controlling behaviour is all well and good. But will you have the energy for it when you are elderly and they are middle aged? I think not. Simple #GIVEITUP. Let them go.

Controlling and possessing them in whatever manner you see fit is not caring it’s stifling. Treating your child in this way is weird. After all, there is no ‘child’ category on eBay so you cannot buy and sell them as objects, at least not in this country, so why treat them like you can? THEY ARE NOT POSESSIONS, THEY ARE HUMANS. (All said in a Dalek voice.)

On a final note. Take yourself back. How would you have felt treated like this by your parents? There is silence. I rest my case. As I tell my stepdaughters daily treat people as you want to be treated yourself.

A modern fairytale – and how it really ends

There was once a girl who lived in a small but perfectly formed house. It was filled with many beautiful things wrapped in tissue paper, lovingly placed in cardboard boxes. Yes, shoes. There were lots of them. She was not nicknamed Imelda for nothing.

This girl, let’s call her Imelda, dreamt of meeting the man of her dreams. She had simple tastes. She wished for one thing only, that her Prince had a good sense of humour. Well maybe more than one thing, as she also hoped he had not been hit by the ugly stick.  She knew that beauty came from within, but even she acknowledged that looks did matter a little, well slightly, along with big feet.

She dated for years. Meeting men was like spotting a dodo in the local park, it was impossible. So she turned to the internet. She frequented those sites a lot. The clean ones of course. No bondage, chains or anything else of a weird nature was wanted.

It was bad. She considered a long term holiday to the Isle of Lesbos. But at least there was variety to the dodgy blokes. Old men. Young men. Ugly men. Male models.  Gingers. Policemen. Firemen. Serial killer fanatics. Potential serial killers. Pathological liars. Sociopaths. Married men. Not quite unmarried men. Gay men not out the closet yet. Gay men getting back in the closet. Wig wearers. Heel wearers. Doctors. Dentists. And the list could go on.

The dates got yet more painful and the supposed chat up lines even more tedious. And then when she thought the male species could not be any worse. It got worse. The spot catcher, and the Yorkshire ripper fanatic quite literally tipped her over the edge. Watching paint dry became pleasurable. A pin in the eye was fun. Lesbos was calling AGAIN.

One day she admitted defeat and opened an account with Anne Summers which provided free batteries with all purchases.

Then something strange happened. Lightning struck. Her fairy tale began. Her Prince Charming appeared from the house next door to her incredibly unhappy, on the brink of being divorced friend. Thinking back this friend was a little like one of the ugly sisters as she was old, bitter and jealous of Imelda’s new life.

The prince appeared in a flowery shirt (it was later binned) and an amazing pair of blue eyes. It was love at first sight. Well him not the shirt. He was funny, suave, interesting and a little sophisticated. He even knew how to use the weather app on his iPhone. Not bad for an over forty Imelda thought.

Who knew love in fact dulled all the senses not just eyesight? Well it’s true. Imelda was so blinded by love she missed that he was a smoker. Not once when he stuck his tongue down her throat, very nicely too might I add, or held her close whilst she was in an alcohol induced coma that first night, did she taste or smell the nicotine!

Copious amounts of alcohol, steak dinners, a zebra sofa, hiding behind said sofa, temporary facial paralysis, laughter and a few new pairs of shoes later her fairy tale came true. She married Prince Charming, she lived in his castle, a nice detached house in Cheshire, and they lived happily ever after with his two children…..or did they?

Well yes they did. But this is a modern fairy tale, we are no longer in the dark ages in storyland or anywhere else.

This story was not going to end with a nice wedding, in a tent in their garden and a happy honeymoon in Barbados. It needs a bit of afterlife.

In the afterlife, after wedding that is, they were incredibly happy. But let’s be honest about it too.

Firstly there was no appearance of an evil woman plotting the downfall of the children. Imelda loved her stepdaughters very dearly and it showed. She was always more fairy godmother than wicked stepmother, and as all mothers are was taxi driver, laundry queen and general hair and make-up guru too.

There were losses of shoes, but only to her stepdaughters, who as they got older took a shine to some of the many styles in her closet.

The wicked characters were present just not in the usual fairy tale guise. Instead of the three ugly sisters there were the bitter and twisted bitches on the school run, down the pub, at the gym in fact everywhere she went there was an annoying woman ready to put her down.

But she did not care. In the words of Barbara Streisand she was a woman in love.

And finally there were no more children. The truth was this was a modern marriage not based around the need for family as this already existed, and besides Imelda had many children of different guises, shoes included, and this was just the way she liked it.

The end.

Turning over a new leaf for 2015 – well at least I am!


Resolutions are over. Confessions are the 2015 essential. Mine is a simple one. I am CBC.

This is not a weird substance addiction, mental illness or a personality disorder worthy of an ‘on the spectrum’ reference. No it is very simple, I am childless by choice.

I am lucky, there is no sad fertility story. I am not past it either, although at 36 apparently I could well be. There is no throwing myself on the sword for the need of a previously reproduction proven other half either. No it’s plain and simple. I am just not that interested.

I like kids too. Just not all the time, surgically attached to me like a large life size tumour that eventually starts to answer back. In short, I like buying shoes, babysitting dogs and not having baby poo under my finger nails. Simples.

So why the confession. I have written on it before. I have to justify it weekly. What’s more it’s 2015, a new year. It could be the year that Hilary Clinton will be the first female US president, K-Middy has opted for 3 kitchens not just the average one, and Jordan aka Katie Price has finally had a breast reduction. The latter is probably the most controversial. But my little revolutionary life choice is not six figure tabloid newsworthy information in the big picture of the modern world. FACT.

So why am I bothering? Because the #childfreeshaming does not seem to be stopping. To be asked once is fair enough. To be asked repeatedly is just not acceptable. It’s like dealing with a child who thinks if they ask enough their parent will eventually give in. Sorry no, not this one.

Like a grammar school education and a well ironed shirt for some give the right impression. For a lot of women, stretching your nether regions to the point of breaking and pushing a child or several out has a similar effect on your social standing. What a load of donkey dung.

You may be a happy, intelligent and successful woman in your own sweet way, but you are treated like an imbecile who has had her brain removed should you choose to keep your bits tightly intact. Give me a Jehovah’s Witness over these over fertile, reproducing baby bashers any day of the week.

Repeatedly when quizzed, I was a reoccurring, pathological, lack of fertility billy bullshitter. God knows why I cared so much as the people who ask and judge are not just seriously thick and socially inept, but often the least relevant to my life. I succumbed to social pressure.

Well no more. I am proud of my choice as it’s the right choice for me. I wish I could meet more women of the same social group who were in a physical form not on twitter but it’s a new year so who knows.

That’s not to diminish my CBC Twitter pals. They are fantabulous. Amazing. Strong. Independent. I have pseudo lesbian crushes on them all as much as I do on actress Gillian Anderson in BBC2 drama ‘The Fall’. My admiration for them is huge as I get them and admire their strength of mind, incredibly thick skin and determination to stay true to their chosen path.

They have helped me get to this this milestone. I may well be a little like a teenager again but this time I fit in. I am one of the ‘in-crowd’. God it feels good.
I will say again I am childfree by choice and proud! Do you think I should get a t-shirt? Answers on a postcard please.