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When love breaks down

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You raise your children. Bite your lips at the choices they make as they get on with growing up. Pick them up without judgement after they trip over their mistakes and land in a heap at your feet. Give them a financial leg up on their swagger into adulthood. Lend them your ears and your re-assuring nods that speak a thousand hugs. And when they’ve made it past the post of independence, you help them help themselves to raise their own children.

But when the love between their parents breaks down, you pick the children big and small up again, steady as the touchstone and the rare source of surety they have left . You turn the other cheek from the verbal slaps dispensed with venomous hurt and anger from their significant other. Continue to provide their children with a place of sanctuary from the maelstrom of torment from a marriage that’s never done collapsing.

And though unsteadier on your feet now, the years yielding to all the attendant ailments of growing old that usher you onward to the end of your decade; and while steely in your resolve to keep your home a haven; and willing though you are to look the other way as you take the bruisings in dignified silence, the gradual extraction of your love from their lives and the incremental mounting of barriers along communion and confirmation tables can only cause a hurt that can’t speak its name because you don’t know what the words are.

Do it all again, you would, all the while surrendering to the uncertainties of life. Even in the winter of your days.

Scenes from a court summons

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Scene One

“Ignorance of the law is no defence”

“For the love of God. Someone have mercy and take me away from this upstanding citizen morally riding my degenerate arse.”

“I’m just saying”

“Ah yeah. Of course you are. Mister petty pinstripe lording it over the lowly Primarks”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

[I actually haven’t a notion]

“Nothing. You couldn’t possibly understand” (dramatic nose-fling narrowly missing a neck-cramp)

Scene Two

A second-glance in the rear-view mirror. Definitely flashing lights. Hang on, there’s only me on the road. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

That’s right, roll the driver’s window down just as Poncherello opens the passenger door there to register evidence of my nasty Werther’s Original habit. Helpful. Even better, he sits on the evidence. I think there might’ve been one left in that bag.

Observed using mobile two miles back. Caution. Fine. Seven days to present licence.

“Do you wish to say anything?”

“Toffee?”

“Absolutely guilty”

That sounded weirdly jaunty. Even by jaunty standards.

Scene Three

“Silence in the court room. All rise”

This is like mass. I’d swear he just bowed before the altar. Why are all the female legal eagles wearing black? It’s hardly their funeral. If those three were a few years younger with shorter skirts and a low-strapped guitar each, they could pass for a tribute act to Robert Palmer’s Addicted to Love video. How do they all say “Your Worship” with a straight face? He can’t be a solicitor; he’s like… 12.

*cuts to mirage of advice dispensed in kitchen that morning* “Speak to prosecuting solicitor. Fine paid next day. Explain EU licence [slightly zone out at this stage but manage to conceal it well] Nordie licence applied for.”

Done.

“So you’ve no legal representation?”

“Eh. No. I’m representing myself” *Robert Palmer video model pout*

“OK, well, we’ll get it sorted. You step forward before the judge when you hear your name called. Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.”

I’m not so confident.

“Will I have to say ‘Your Worship’?”

“Yes. I’m afraid so”.

I knew it. She thinks it’s all a bit ridiculous, too.

I take my place among my fellow crims and we immediately form an alliance against the press gathered adjacent. My Mother-in-Law hadn’t entered my head until now. All I can think about is her leafing through the paper to discover I have brought further shame on the family. She knew this day would come once I’d refused another helping of her Malteser Cheesecake and we’d settled on a registry office wedding.

Scene Four

“You can’t just drive right in. This is a police station!”

How remiss of me to mistake that vast concrete area with white boxes for a carpark. “Staff only, I’m afraid”. Right enough. Paramilitary threats don’t usually show up in a ten-year old clapped out family car littered with Werther’s Original wrappers driven by a Wurzel Gummage look-alike, but it’s a bit soon to be letting any old middle-aged civilian in.

“The thing is, I’ve an Irish driver’s licence”. Side-ways head seeking maximum sympathy and understanding included. This trusty tactic belly-flops in front of both of our faces.

Proper licence needed for this jurisdiction. Summons likely. Best change it over.

Scene Five

Four rings in with no answer. Sufficient time for a smirk to hatch around the lip edge. By seven, I’ve gone to the giggle side.

On the eighth…

“Hen!” (even friends have odd terms of endearment)

*Mutley wheeze*

“What is it?”

*more Mutley wheezing*

“I’m up in court in the morning”

She Mutley wheezes.

It’s true what they say. You find out who your real friends are when you get into trouble.

“Now, what did I tell you about sucking too many Werther’s Originals?”

Discussions that don’t matter shit to working class women in Ireland today

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1. Gender quotas

Be it on to state boards or corporate boards. Elevating white, educated, relatively privileged women to positions of power and influence isn’t really going to have much of a revolutionary impact. Unless the reasons for the current imbalance includes a sober squaring up to reasons for the lack of diversity in the level below i.e. equality in the broadest sense.

2. The dilemma of hanging on to a ‘career’ after having children

The prevailing narrative is concerned with the assumed entitlement to hang on to a career, with the ever-so-subtle understanding that it is more important, worthy work; therefore a no-brainer. Buoyed up on a third level education and therefore invested with more meaning, the safeguarding of one’s career is a priority. Threats to this include the risk of “having to undertake low-skilled work” and the understanding that these women shouldn’t have to do this. Presumably this is for other women to undertake instead, without any of their fanciful notions of pursuing their personal aspirations for improvement or access to the high table of success considered a right or a fight in the mix.

3. The consensus on the apparent elimination of discrimination, misogyny or sexism in the workplace or society

White middle class workplaces tend to have a considerably lower tolerance for that these days. They also have more effective recourse to action and protection, if it does arise. Just because other white middle class women don’t experience it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. Some of my friends’ friends are black and working class. Ghastly. More rioja?

4. The right to funded childcare services for the purposes of returning to employment only 

Creche care and childminding support is also an integral component in the support apparatus women depend on to return to education to enable them broaden their employment and well-being prospects. And maybe one day attend that conference on gender quotas. That’s without due consideration to the incompatibility of current provision with the haphazard unsociable hours within the services industry that many have no choice but to work in.

5. The revolutionary impact of social media

When it is predominantly concerned with narrow discussions around points 1 – 4, and a platform for selective research findings that support the portrayal of white middle class mothers as the most put-upon group of women in Ireland , it’s hardly surprising.

Mná na hÉireann: Súil eile

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turf cutting

Pinkpanther

50 year old woman from Dublin. Hi. Looking for love. Isn’t everyone. I would like to meet that special woman. between 40 to 55 years old in the dublin area ireland and that the lady is a nondrinker also . not interested in women who drinks. Females only.

Rafe58

Hi I am honest, genuine, caring, very easy going with good sense of humour. I like to socialize but I also like nights in, I am comfortable with who I am and like my own company at times.I would like to meet someone who is somewhat like me.I like a woman to look like a woman so no butch please. (I am Gay no men, I wont respond and you will be blocked)

Tall Protestant Lady

Likes things nice with a lot of TLC WLTM same type Gentleman. Lady likes man to be 5’10 – 6ft, 63 – 68, NS, no ties.

Reserved Lady

Kind and respectable, 63 years. Would like to meet gentleman with similar qualities for long-term friendship.

Widow, no ties

No ties retired professional. Age 73, 5 ft tall. Slim and attractive. Good sense of humour. Would like to meet an attractive, nice gentleman for outings, foreign holidays etc. Likes theatre, cinema, music, meals out and in and walks along the beach.

Christian Lady

Overweight, sincere. WLTM Christian gentleman aged 53 and over for love and marriage.

Hey there

49 year old female looking for a male aged 40 – 50. I’m a country girl at heart, and I live in a little house at the edge of a deep, dark wood. There’s nothing wrong with the city for a visit, but I wouldn’t like to live there. I like good books, good movies, good conversation – I enjoy the odd meal or night out, but my pubbing and clubbing days are well behind me. Marital status: separated. Education:degree. Children: 3.

Alexil

Professional woman, loves to laugh, black sense of humour. Enjoys good conversation, good company, and the simple things in life. Age: 45. Marital status: divorced. Children: 2

Marbrid02

69 year old female looking for a male aged 50 – 75. I’m an energetic, happy, good-humoured single female who would like to meet “youthful” male of similar disposition and qualities. Life is good but would be better if shared with someone who likes to travel, walk, dance, holiday at home and abroad, who enjoys the theatre and all the finer and lighter things in life. Marital status: never married. Children: none.

Aroma

52 year old female looking for a male aged 47 – 54. I am a loving, trustworthy woman. I am looking for a man with a decent sense of life. Key words: chatting, music, reading, cooking, eating out. Marital status: separated. Occupation: retired.

Samantha, 54

Been without a steady man in my life for several months. Not looking anything serious, just a bit of fun and naughtiness. Not interested in anyone who is in a relationship, as have strong feelings about cheats. So if you are unattached and up for a good time, get in touch. Discreet relationships and One night stands. Interests: Dogging, Oral – receiving, Oral – giving, Anal, Role Playing and Voyeurism.

Joanne, 52

I would like to meet non smoking men between the ages of 36 and 45 You must have a full head of dark hair that means no baldies/crew cuts/shaved heads or greying/receding/white or red haired men. You must also have no facial hair. What I really want to meet is Tall (I won’t meet anybody below 5ft 7 and won’t go above 6’1) dark and handsome with a nice slim body. You must enjoy being with the older female and accept that I have to like what I see when you send me a picture. YOU MUST send me a RECENT face picture if you respond to my profile. One other thing men covered in tattoos do nothing for me (sorry guys) a few discreet tattoos are fine. I am also not into guys with one or two or any piercings at all. I will not just shag you because you sent me a few emails and a RECENT picture. I like to take my time to get to know you first using the likes of Skype messenger, if the chemistry is not there then sorry we won’t ever be meeting. I am not interested in guys from Scotland.

Frances, 49

Dont really know what to write on here but hey here goes, normal kinda woman from belfast, im single and thought id give it a go on here, im looking to have some fun, but nothing serious im not into long term relationships at all, far to messy for me, i like my life the way it is. xx

Sources: All genuine adverts posted by Irish women in the following: Spark, Belfast Telegraph, Marital Affair, Mingle, Dating4u

On the bench

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Even the restaurant staff seemed to be in on it. No sooner had the pair of waiters strutted off in their confirmation trousers when our eyeballs collided over a bowl of onion rings. One of his brows elevated in sympathy with certainty they’d forgotten my order; the other furrowed in mild panic he might have to share them with me.

So I did what any considerate martyr partner would do in the circumstances: robbed our little one’s chips when she wasn’t looking, and pretended to be nonchalant about the mishap until we collared a passing waiter. Quick on the heels of a fulsome apology came the insistence I accept a few fancy beers on the house. In time honoured tradition of poker-faced comparison of orders, we both conceded I had won. A rare victory for the persona non grata on this maiden voyage.

Relegation took effect on the plane where I was condemned to three rows behind. I spent the flight straining to hear what the conspiratorial chuckling was about as they downed a bag of Haribos between them. Not so much as the offer of a fried egg insincerely made over their shoulder.

On landing, my stroller-rolling skills were deemed inferior by its passenger, so a quick pit-stop in arrivals elevated her Da to the driving seat. I shuffled behind, struggling to keep pace along with the bag, the coats, and the just-in-case blankets. And the two books and twice as many papers in case we had to huff about something, or sit through relentless teletexting for the latest results. If the hotel had teletext. Always a tense moment. “That remote is for the radio”. Ah, his mystified look; one of my personal favourites.

So much for the extravagantly sized bed and the neighbouring mattress that passed her battery of bouncing tests. By 2am, she was the horizontal to my vertical, until I was displaced by irredentist toes and exiled to her bed while their snores chittered on enthusiastically.

In Hamley’s, their giggles pervaded the shop like a sonar signalling their whereabouts. Fearful she had located the Barbie aisle, I was relieved to find them talking to a plastic fish doing endless laps of an over-sized bowl, momentarily pausing the rhythm of their laughter to explain the joke in a manner that implied I really needed to have been there.

They really needed to have been there to fully appreciate the spectacle of me getting stuck in the turnstile with my bag as we entered the grounds the following day. Having skipped on through the roar of the crowd in the opening minutes of the game, they missed out on the ignominy of me having to be rescued by a security official. Purposeful skipping that had no time for time-wasters unaccustomed to the ways of the modern day gladiatorial pit.

Who could blame him? He’d been planning this day since before she was born when he smuggled in a new-born babygro from the official merchandise. It was official. In exchange for sparing her conscription to Catholicism, he’d recruited her to a more militant faith with its own band of over-zealous followers scarf-deep in suspicion over referee decisions and ball positions.

Beside them I sat, watching a grown man being reduced to a toddler barely older than the one he held aloft as the first goal went in. The one he danced with as the second sailed past them towards the back of the net. The one he plonked in between himself and the goal-scorer as he beamed down the lens of the camera I was ordered to point at them. The one who has been talking non-stop all week about their return visit.

“Maybe you could go to the cinema instead”.

Yeah, maybe. park

Match of the day

This woman’s work

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Work eh. Who’d be bothered. And don’t give me that women-can-do-anything routine with a tampon ad voiceover quality to your enthusiasm. That’s all fine and dandy until you hit your forties when you just want to put your feet up and whinge about what you could’ve been if only you had gotten off your arse on time. But as a mother (not merely a lowly ‘parent’) to a female member of the species, I’m morally contracted to keep up this Lean In On Me routine till she finds out about the ways of world for herself. (Future awkward conversations.. “Well, you fell for Santa, and the Tooth Fairy, and *scratches back of head* I just sort of lost of the run of myself after that. You did drink milk from those things lying at my feet though.”)

I’m not allowed to admit to anyone that I hope she gives university a wide berth unless she’s planning on becoming an astrophysicist, or enters well after she’s left her teens behind her. I once shared a house with an astrophysicist and distinctly remember indignantly remarking “I don’t remember seeing that on the prospectus” as if the sector was robbed of my scientific genius. That was after he regaled me with tales of chasing brown dwarfs around space, and before one of my mates chimed in to ask if he could read star signs.

Some other things not in the prospectus I hope she discovers…

  • A healthy scepticism towards third-level education: whether it’s the only route available to what she wants to do with her life, while recognising the value and privilege of education for its own sake; not just a route to work, or an entitlement to work based solely on it. Graduates are a mixed ability group like any other. Look around your office. Actually, just look at your management.
  • Be suspicious of folk who define themselves by the letters trailing their name. They haven’t done enough waitressing to know what a knob they sound like, or what the application of ‘interpersonal skills’ really means.
  • Wanting to do something ordinary is OK. That’s what the majority folk end up being as they contend with modern life. Except those people who make the buns in our local bakery, and Enya. But if doing battle with the piped cream, or wandering round naked in a field on the grounds of a castle howling at the moon isn’t her thing, that’s OK. Every modest job contributes to making our world spin.
  • She doesn’t have to fly to the moon, gesticulate weirdly in an ill-fitting power suit in a boardroom; cream her knickers discussing Sheryl Sandberg at her book club, or facilitate unethical financial transactions over obscenely priced lunches with people looking rougher than the photo accompanying their inflated Linkedn profiles, to break the gender mould. She can also build beautiful walls, thatch cottages, repair car engines, or be a real hero and fix washing machines. Plumbers are the unrecognised feminists of this world after all. The world will always need plumbers. Most jobs with an element of manual labour are extraordinary.
  • A job is not guaranteed for life. Anyone with that expectation is divorced from the real world.
  • If it all goes to shit and she needs to bow out of the mainstream workforce for whatever reason – that’s OK. Generations before her fought hard for workers’ rights. The right to sick pay, the right to get well. The right not be ashamed for being human.
  • Chances are everyone is under some degree of stress. Comparing your own work stresses to others is futile and, if you’re a teacher, will only win you a few headbutts. Remember that in the modern age, the union representative is the message. And most sectors of hardworking people don’t have a union to negotiate conditions or fight with Matt Cooper on Thursday evenings while she wonders what’s in the fridge for dinner.
  • Not to worry if she’s exhausted by the ‘professional’ persona she strives to cultivate or the bizarre ‘professional’ persona of others that appears at odds with their regular personalities. Work is all about suspending disbelief and leaving your normal personality at the door. Just remember to pick it up on the way out.
  • Life isn’t fair and until there is a universal definition of what constitutes worthy work, the wealth from work will continue to be distributed unevenly, with or without an education.
  • The composition of discussion panels in the media regarding the status of women in the workplace is usually skewed in favour of middle class women and their corresponding problems. Valid and relevant though they are, and she might well be one of them, if she filters the same problems through a person with half the wage, and a quarter of the opportunities, it’ll aid perspective.
  • Email read receipts are unnecessary and the scourge of the instant gratification generation. Ignore them.
  • That reminds me. Folk who will pride themselves in pointing out her grammar or spelling mistakes are just working through their feelings of guilt  and shame around masturbation.
  • It’s only work.

wall

A barrier to women in the workplace

Gaol bird

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Time to crack open the Football Special. Word has reached me here at the dungeon that the original punk angel herself, Patti Smith, will play Kilmainham in Dublin this June. Not only that, it’ll be a run through of her enduring debut album, Horses.

Remember those spooky pictures of J.C. and his Sacred Heart appearing as a flickering red torch shoved under his chin like he was regaling the apostles with some top ghost stories? A relic from a time when it was essential armour of any self-respecting household defending itself from someone looking in or looking down doubting its inhabitants were anything but good stock. Well, we didn’t have one, so I would see how far the gaze from a singer on an album cover could follow me round the room instead. Album covers adorned with secular Gods presiding over standards of household rebelliousness and cultural credibility.

One such cover that made a lasting impression was Cliff Richard this slender framed dame with her vest on inside out. One has to join the rebellion somewhere. And she probably went out without a coat. By the way, wearing your Father’s suit to demonstrably prove your devotion to Talking Heads doesn’t make you rebellious. It makes you a plonker. And I should know. But I digress.

Patti Smith

She should have some good luck for that, with any luck.

So, it was Patti Smith Group’s Easter LP that paved the way towards impenetrable poetry I pretended to understand and an introduction to celebrated androgyny and all its corresponding mysteries I hadn’t the vocabulary to share but intuited somehow. Much like the way I used to well-up to the litany of Phil Collins’s weepy routines without ever having had my heart tampered with In Real Life by then. These mysteries orbit the instincts from the time you’re a nipper.

As for Horses, the cover will never look the same after reading her memoir Just Kids, which illuminated the corners of her inspiration, her daily life during those early heady days of misadventure, and the origins of the iconic imagery that went disc-in-sleeve with the goods.

The prospect of hearing the revered heavy weights (Gloria, Land, the title track) is not without tantalising tingles; but I expect to have all hairs standing to attention by the time the quiet piano notes open the lid on track four.

Free Money: from soft vocal wishing what could only be, to pulsating punk whoops of declarations of what would be if her lottery ticket came in; all while giving a downpour of drums a run for their money in three glorious minutes and fifty-two seconds. Take it away there, Patti..

Nanny state

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Not for the first time I pulled away from our one’s childminder’s, relieved she doesn’t require a degree to do what she does so brilliantly. Not for the first time I handed her cash, struggling to square the sums with the sum total of responsibilities, energy and capabilities involved in her job. Not for the first time do I join the chorus of my peers demanding more imaginative, equitable and accessible childcare support policies that account for the diversity of family support needs and the right to corresponding choices.

Not for the last time will I wince when I hear care of those two and under couched in the narrative of ‘early years education’. Not for the last time will I feel slightly nauseous at the rise of the persistent framing of this stage of life within the notion of a formalised educational framework. Not for the last time will I head-scratchingly despair at the subtle expansion of the uniformity of this language to legitimise this pathway as the only available route to validating the skills of childcare workers; or the panacea for inadequate recompense from the state for their contribution to the economy and future lives of our youngest citizens.

Not for the sake of politeness do I show a keen interest in the continuing professional training our childminder is required to undertake to keep pace with good practice and the evolution of standardised care of children. Or the on-going regulations she is subject to. These are critical. Not for the want of devaluing her brilliance do I know it unlikely that she would have been able to access third level education were it a requirement when starting out. Or in the future. Not for the want of deliberately failing to recognise the value of education do I hope this gallop towards third level childcare courses slows down. And catches itself on.

Not for the want of being unsupportive of others choices do I bristle when I hear soundbite after soundbite about the ‘need’ for childcare to be treated exactly like education. Not with any grand teaching insights am I unwavering in my belief that there is surely a cocktail of ways of regulating and elevating early years care in the hierarchy of valuable work without it being subsumed into mainstream education. Our six-month old didn’t need a curriculum, if she enjoyed one by a less formal name. Same when she was a year. And eighteen months. She’ll be in it long enough. Some would say unfortunately. Including me.

Not for the belief that I think I’m right do I feel calls for investment into services only is a slippery slope towards shutting down the variety of childcare options that the diversity of families rely on. Not through any certainty that their voices are less valid do I wish for the validity and legitimacy of all choices to be taken on board and safeguarded.

Not, if we were never to see her again after our one moves on, will we be anything but grateful for the love, care, capability, enthusiasm, intuition, warmth, and empathy our childminder had for her while in her care. Our choice was based mostly on chemistry, backed up by recommendation. Letters after her name would never confer any of these talents on her, and certainly won’t guarantee better terms and conditions, as workers in various other caring and community sectors who require them can attest. And as the latter unfortunately know all too well – there is no utopia in sight where jobs are guaranteed on the basis of the assumed worthiness of the work, and the best learning and skills don’t come from a lecture theatre only. Those who enter it exclusively for purposes of compensation from changing family circumstances, or the need to diversify to fit with family circumstances, are in for this rude awakening.

Chasing postcodes

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Back in the boom (shake shake the room), Ardal O’Hanlon quipped the arrival of Eastern European communities meant Irish people could finally use the WXYZ sections of their address books. Too late for the tattered book in my parents’ house. You know the one; every household has one. Ours is usually sandwiched between the latest regional phone directory and an envelope bulging with memorial cards passed on from grieving friends and relatives down the years. That dog-eared antique had barely margins available by the millennium, and now doubles up as a whistle-stop tour of the lives of the off-spring.

It’s no coincidence the only numbers scribbled in the back pages next to a ream of scored-through dodgy addresses (up-and-coming actually *flings nose in air*) include: Western Union, PPS numbers, NI numbers, bank accounts, and the numbers of payphones on many a draughty landing. There’s also the number of the local pizza delivery service. Emergency information, in short.

All of page X and most of Y (why? indeed) are taken up with a string of residential dots that join up to my current cell, while one brother squats all over Z. It’s no coincidence either that the more ..shall we say.. solvent..siblings have barely a page between them. Losers. But enough of this exploitation of any opportunity to project my personal failings on to them.

This week’s form-filling tasks involved listing my previous addresses stretching back over various criminally dodgy hair-dos. The final tally came in at well above twenty. Barring the mothership, I’ve been in the current one the longest. It’s no coincidence I’m…etc. etc.

I couldn’t remember if that flat where the crazy Spaniard cut up my beloved Rocketdogs in an impressive act of revenge was number 27 or 29. There was that street I remember because it sounded like vulva, and I still have occasional flashbacks of my first bedsit in Grosvenor Square. Nasty ones that feature woeful attempts at flirting with the professional cameraman who lived upstairs (“Oh, I like photography, too”), and almost killing my landlady who lived in the basement flat with my amateur DIY skills. Yikes.

Turning the corner into our road last week, I spotted the giveaway signs of another house I lived in three doors down even though I’ve never set foot in it. The living room blind hangs at half-mast as a mark of respect to the new arrival, nodding to day-light to come in but go easy. The blanket-draped handle of the pram the only visible sign of life.

Late at night, the dim glow from the corner of the upstairs window is barely noticeable. In the mornings, I occasionally pass the same midwife who ordered our blind up, our heating down, and straddled me on my own bed with a nipple protector. Glancing in my rear-view I see her pull up at their driveway.

I’ve heard of people returning to their former home-places unannounced because they happened to be in the area and fancied a nose-around. I’ve thought about knocking on the door with the offer of something, but I think we only exchanged hellos once by the milk shelf in the local shop. The thoroughly modern neighbourly relationship that could get you reported for stalking if you smiled.

I wonder what she’s done with the place. Moses basket or crib. Does the double-bill of Frasier herald the transition into normal morning time as she once knew it in between never-ending rounds of toast? If she’s not dressed by noon will she bother her arse getting dressed at all? If she isn’t dressed in another three months, will she make it out the door confidently by six? Who knows what goes on behind closed doors.

fridge

This fridge has no pâté. Quick! Call the parenting line!

Still, I’m curious if her best laid plans include trips to the cinema; whether she has friends and family nearby, and if she wishes everyone would just fuck off and come on over, at exactly the same time. Does she attempt a few selfies with the child for her mates overseas that won’t ever be sent but will actually look not so bad in hindsight. Will her hindsight rely on these photographic artefacts to jog her memory of these early days when she became a fugitive from certainty. Is she wishing she could sleep when her baby does or has she quit trying to grab hold of that mythical lifeline, and taking perverse pleasure in pâté and re-runs of One Born Every Minute by mid-afternoon instead. Does she wonder if she took a shit during labour and suspects everyone present protected her from the truth, or does she not…give a shit.

Might she, one day, a few years from now, recognise a half-hanging blind in a nearby house. Will she mentally push the door open and step inside to check what’s on the telly, anxiously note the room temperature reading, take comfort in the disarray, survey the contents of the cupboards, check the fridge door for photos of the baby’s Da at knee-level. Maybe run her eye over the CD collection to see how the child is likely to turn out. Will she scan the walls of the nursery for an infestation of animal stickers that threaten to bring her out in a rash. Will she baulk at the notion of calling it a nursery. Will she open the wardrobe to a dose of pink clothes that risk giving her diabetes unless she closes it again quickly? Will she at last be able to put a name on the feelings she felt back then and shake her head at the ruthless competition that ensued between them. Will she curse her inability to curate that phase from anything other than the splinters from mislaid memories?

And will she wonder if she’s the only eejit that looks up a house she’s never been in, longing to sit in it for just a little while longer.