The Single Swan

The Journey of a Single Mother

Brock Turner isn’t actually a rapist

You will have heard about Brock Turner, “the Stanford rapist”. You will have seen his face plastered all over the Internet.  You will probably have read the shameful plea for a lenient sentence by his father. You will have read the victim’s letter.

I hope you have read the victim’s letter.  If you haven’t, please, whatever your situation, your sex, your background or your beliefs, please read it here.  It is the strongest and most courageous testimony you will ever read. 

You will know all about “the Stanford rapist”: the “promising” swimmer who sexually assaulted an intoxicated and unconscious young woman behind a dumpster truck leaving abrasions, bruising and mud inside her vagina.


You will probably be outraged at the leniency of the six month sentence passed down to Brock.  On good behaviour, and I’ve no doubt it’ll be exemplary, he will serve three months – just enough time for the media frenzy to settle so that he can start his life afresh. 

His victim will never be able to start her life afresh.  The physical scars will heal – I am sure they already have.  But the emotional and psychological scars will always travel with her.  They will define her.

What you won’t have stopped to consider is that in the eyes of Californian state law, Brock Turner isn’t actually a rapist. Californian state law defines rape as penetration by the penis.  Brock Turner didn’t penetrate with his penis, he penetrated with his fingers and foreign objects.   He did not rape his victim. 

Under English law, Brock wouldn’t be classified as a rapist either. 

Did Brock think that his actions were less severe because he did not insert his penis? 

Did Brock think that his actions were excusable because he did not insert his penis? 

Whether he inserted his penis or not, the impact for the victim is the same.  The victim’s sexual organ was penetrated. This phallo-centric definition of rape underplays the seriousness of other forms of penetrative sexual assault. 

Is murder a lesser crime if committed by strangulation rather than using a weapon such as a gun or a knife?  No, it isn’t, because the impact on the victim is the same.   

The definition of rape should relate to the impact on the victim rather than the method used by the perpetrator.   

In Qatar

Brock’s is not the only outrageous rape case that has incensed me this week.   

In Qatar a Dutch woman was convicted for being raped.  Yes, read that again.  I had to re-read the sentence when I first discovered the news article. A woman was convicted for being raped.  She was handed a suspended sentence, fined the equivalent of £580 and will be deported. 

The 22 year old woman had her drink spiked in a  Doha hotel in March.  She woke up in a stranger’s flat and realised she had been raped. 

Her attacker was sentenced to 100 lashes for having sex outside of marriage.   He claimed the sex was consensual.  Her lawyers would have had to prove that there had been no voluntary actions between her and the man for him to have been charged with rape. This clearly was never going to be possible because her drink had been spiked.  She cannot remember any of it. She was convicted for consensual sex outside of marriage.

I am, going to finish on a marginally lighter note and share with you Thames Valley Police’s educational video on sexual consent. 

Only the British would use tea! 


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Baby Goes to Daddy: #RASummer

I try to make the most of the time when Cygnet is with his daddy.  Although I am always proud to be a single mum, it is rare that I feel that single motherhood allows me to do things that I would find very difficult as a coupled mother.  As I sipped pink champagne at a preview of the Royal Academy’s Summer Exhibition today, I pondered how very difficult it would be to be quite so civilised with a shouting, running hooligan of a 22 month old boy in tow.

Last year’s Summer Exhibition was absolutely brilliant.  Last year I loved how the artwork had been hung; often on in your face brightly coloured walls that would make the sombre tones of Farrow and Ball scream in horror.   This year most of the art was hung on white walls and I fell in love with some of the individual pieces of art work.

If only I could afford to buy them and had the space to hang them.

Let me show you a selection:

This little girl is a sculpture, but she seems so very real and I just fell in love with her.

#RASummer #RASummer

You have to be a member of the Royal Academy, or, as in my case, a friend of a member of the Royal Academy of Arts to be able to attend a preview.  I love attending the previews because some of the other members are just so great to watch.  I was fascinated by this woman’s hat.  I think it was a dog, but who knows, the zoom on my i-phone wasn’t quite good enough.  I just thought she was great.

 #RASummer #RASummer

These skulls would make a great centrepiece for a dinner party with a difference, and this painted piece of toast made me re-think whether our stale bread has to be thrown to the ducks in the river.

skulls toast

My absolute favourite painting of all was Kate’s Dream by John Wragg RA.  I covet it.  I almost considered getting the credit cards out and buying it, but then I remembered that I have a 1970s kitchen with avocado skin coloured worktops.  I have calculated that if I continue to save diligently I will be able to replace said kitchen with a clean white Ikea specimen hopefully sometime towards the end of 2017.  If I spent £6500 on this stunning piece of art work, I would be living with the avocado skin worktops probably until 2019.

It’s a tough call and I may yet change my mind.  I am a rubbish cook anyway.


Proud to be a single mum

I watched Myleene Klass’ documentary Single Mums on benefits on Tuesday evening.  She has since been criticised for being a rich single mum going round and interviewing other single parents who live very different lives.  The benefits angle and the title were unnecessary in my view and no doubt chosen to reel in additional (Daily Mail reading) viewers.  This was a shame.

Myleene did manage to portray a broad spectrum of single motherhood.  She also showed the pride, the accomplishment, the challenges, the love and the warmth that single mums have. 

I am proud to be a single mum … but I have always been afraid to say it. 

single mum

That’s not to say that single motherhood isn’t without difficulties.  My God it can be tough, but then motherhood, in fact parenthood, can be monumentally tough.  Let us not forget that!  The challenges that single parents face aren’t all due to their single status. 

These are my three biggest challenges as a single mum: 

Managing the guilt

As a single mother I feel guilty because I got it wrong.  I chose the wrong ‘life partner’.  I had a child with someone who wasn’t right for me.  My now ex only showed his true colours after Cygnet was born.  It was then that I realised that I couldn’t spend the rest of my life with him and still be myself. 

I feel guilty because my bad decision means that Cygnet will never get the opportunity to live in a happy family with his mother and his father living together as a unit.   This happy family environment was the childhood that I had and I feel guilty and a failure because I haven’t been able to give Cygnet the same. 

But I am learning to cope with this guilt.  I am proud of myself because I had the courage to take the decision to get out.  I also know that I am a better parent to Cygnet because I became a single mum.  I know that he has an authentic mother, a mother who is being herself and I believe that role models have to be authentic. 

Although I would never dare say this to Cygnet’s father, I also firmly believe that Cygnet has a better father because we have separated.  Parenting was firmly the mother’s job when Cygnet’s father and I were together.  Now that we are separated Cygnet’s father actually spends quality time with his son.  They have bonded.  They have a relationship that they would never have had if we had stayed together. 

Coping with the single mum stereotype

The stereotype is tough and it was the stereotype of single motherhood that made my decision to leave my ex so tough in the first place.  The single mum stereotypes (on benefits, sex crazed husband stealers, failures, drab) are ubiquitous.   

I went for a drink with a friend of mine last week.  He insisted on buying my glass of wine because I am a “single mum on benefits”.  What?” I countered.  I work full time, I own my flat (with a large mortgage from Santander but nonetheless), I probably earn more than my friend.  I don’t qualify for benefits and it would be very wrong for me, in my situation, to receive them. 

I am not for a second saying that there is anything wrong with claiming benefits.  But I do firmly believe that benefits should be reserved for those who absolutely need them to keep their heads above water.  I am fortunate enough not to be in that category.

Not having someone to share the joyful moments with

Myleene hit the metaphorical nail on the head when she said that this was the toughest thing about being a single parent.  This is probably the toughest thing for me too and I think, as Cygnet does more and more exciting things, this will only get tougher. 

There are only so many times I can send photos of Cygnet trying to climb into the bath, pointing at a digger, sticking his tongue out in a selfie, running round my flat like a lunatic before my younger brother decides to remove himself from my (very supportive) family whatsapp group. 

Mothers and fathers who are together can sit down on the sofa together at the end of the day with a glass of wine and share the details of what their children did that day.  They can have a giggle and they can share in the joy. 

Evenings spent on the sofa alone, with two glasses of wine, watching again and again the videos on my i-phone of Cygnet walking out of the baby disco because he hated the Dirty Dancing number are not quite the same.

So Myleene, thank you for trying to bust some stereotypes of single motherhood.  Thank you for sharing your biggest single mum challenges and thank you for allowing me to admit, in public, that I am proud to be a single mum.

Keep Calm and Carry On Linking Sunday
My Kid Doesn't Poop Rainbows
Reflections From Me
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On being who you are meant to be

Diane Von Furstenberg, as well as having a beautiful, but unaffordable, clothing range, has some very wise words.

Diane said:

“The most important relationship in your life is the one you have with yourself. Because no matter what happens, you will always be with yourself.”

—Diane von Furstenberg

being who you are meant to be

These words really resonate with me.  For a while, in fact for quite a long while, I didn’t really have a good relationship with myself.  I didn’t have a bad relationship with myself either.  I just didn’t really have any feelings either way.  I was ambivalent. 

This doesn’t sound like much of a problem.  But for me, it was. 

Having no feelings about myself: no real pride when I had succeeded; no real anger when I had behaved badly; no real disappointment when I had failed, didn’t really feel like living. 

It took me a while to figure out why. 

It was because I wasn’t living the life that I was meant to lead.  I wasn’t becoming the person I am meant to be.  I wasn’t living by my values, I wasn’t pursuing what I enjoy, I wasn’t connecting with myself.  I just wasn’t really being myself.

This all sounds a bit wanky and abstract and for that I apologise.

I was living someone else’s image of life, someone else vision, someone else’s frustrations and someone else’s story and, as a result, it didn’t feel real for me. 

I don’t for a second think that I am now who I am meant to be and that things will never change.  All is not said and done.  Life is not over. 

Going back to Diane’s quote, I am at least having a relationship with myself now.  I am no longer having a relationship with an image of myself.  I am no longer having a relationship with someone else’s image of myself. 

But, I also recognise that my ‘self’ has to evolve and will evolve and that evolution is the exciting part of living. 

Who I am meant to be is not a destination, but rather the journey of becoming. 

The quality of my relationship with myself will let me know whether I am on the right journey.

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Co-parenting: what it feels like

Co-parenting can be tough, monumentally tough.

First,  there are the inconsistencies in our parenting approach: daddy lets Cygnet eat lollipops; kick a ball in the house; not brush his teeth; takes him swimming when he has green snot coming out of his nose; lets him have a three hour nap in the afternoon when he is due to return to mummy in the evening. 

The three hour-long afternoon nap saga is a particular irritant for me at the moment.  Cygnet is going through a particularly difficult sleep phase (please let it just be a phase!).  He will only go to sleep when I lie with my arms around him on his bedroom floor until he falls asleep.  When Cygnet has had a 45 minute nap in the middle of the day this routine lasts twenty minutes or so – that’s fine. When daddy has let Cygnet sleep for three hours in the late afternoon this routine can last for hours.  I’ve discussed this with daddy but daddy protests that Cygnet always sleeps perfectly for him.  He goes down in his cot at 7pm and sleeps through until 7am. 

I don’t know whether to believe him.

Then there’s the stuff I really struggle to get my head around.  I struggle with the idea of daddy’s new girlfriend, her two kids, and the time they spend as a happy family of five.  I know, I know, I’ve read your blended family blogs and I know that blended family life can be tough.  With a blended family with three young children you can guarantee that at any given time at least one of the children will be having a tantrum. I know that the happy family of five is an image rather than reality. 


But it is human for us to torture ourselves and I torture myself with this happy family image which includes my son but doesn’t involve me as his mother. 

And thirdly, there’s the fact that sometimes Cygnet really does enjoy spending time with his daddy. They go in the carrier on daddy’s bike, they play football in the park and they jump on daddy’s bed.  At first I really struggled with this.  I told myself that Cygnet preferred his daddy to me – yes I was torturing myself again!  Now that Cygnet is a little older the two of us can communicate a bit better.  Cygnet can let me know he loves me and that he wants me and that he wants cuddles and laughs and we have fun together.  Those hours lying on the floor in our tender embrace are painful for my hips but good for my confidence in my role as a mother.

When I started on this co-parenting journey I believed that for it to work my ex and I needed to be good friends.  That felt unachievable because (and I can say this on an anonymous blog) my ex is a tosser, he lacks morals and integrity and we have totally opposing values in life.  These became very apparent in the latter stages of our relationship and left some deep scars.  It will be a long time before we are ever good friends, or indeed friends at all.

I felt that I was failing at this whole co-parenting thing because I couldn’t see how we could ever be friends.  I was torturing myself again!

But now I have come to realise that friendship, in the short term at least, is unrealistic. What is important is that we can cooperate as parents and that we have respect for each other’s roles.  Despite the inconsistencies in our parenting approach, we are able to present an amicable façade in front of our son. 

In spite of everything, I think we are doing okay at this co-parenting thing.   

Keep Calm and Carry On Linking Sunday
My Kid Doesn't Poop Rainbows
Reflections From Me

Twink and a twunk: the gay lexicon

I learned something at the weekend. I learned about a twink and a twunk, an otter, a cub, a bear, and a muscle bear.  This blog post isn’t going to be a life lesson shared or some inspirational quote for you all, but it might be good for a giggle. 

I went for a drink with my male gay friend.  We’ve been friends since university, which now means donkey’s years.  All of my other university friends have changed.  Their lives have moved on.  They’ve left London and moved out to the country.   They’ve got stable jobs, 2.4 children, a wine club subscription and a personal trainer. My gay friend hasn’t changed a bit.  He goes out drinking and dancing at least four times a week, re-tells stories if being dreadfully hungover at work.   After a couple of glasses of wine he also shares much too much information about his very active sex life. 

Anyway, he did tell me a bit about gay London lexicon which, as it is not too gratuitous, I thought I’d share.


A twink is a young gay man – over 18 but under 25.  Or at least he looks under 25 (my gay friend has a far more expansive collection of Clarins and Clinique potions than I do). A twink is hot property. Most gay men want one and most gay men want to be one.  The Oxford English Dictionary says the word twink means “a homosexual or effeminate, or a young man regarded as an object of homosexual desire.”  Apparently the term twink dates back to the 1970s.  I am clearly a bit behind the curve because for me the term dates back to Saturday night but hey ho.  


A twunk has the face of a twink but the physique of a hunk.  A twunk is a hunky twink so to speak. Twunks are quite rare.  Most men under the age of 25 haven’t had enough years to have spent enough time at the gym be really muscly.  My friend likes twunks! 



My friend was insulted when someone referred to him as an ‘otter’ the other day.  He still likes to believe that he is a twink.  He is clearly deluding himself because he is in his mid-30s. An ‘otter’ is a a gay man who is quite hairy all over his body, but is smaller in frame and weighs considerably less than a bear (see below).


A cub is used to describe a young bear (see below!).


A bear is very muscly and very hairy.  He is also slightly older.   My impression though is that once a gay man is no longer in the prized twink category age is less relevant. 

A muscle bear

A muscle bear is, as you might have guessed, like a bear but extra muscly. Having spent the other night in the gay bars of Soho in London I’d suggest that quite a lot of time and money is spent in the gym.  A muscle bear is muscly indeed!

It did strike me that there must be quite a few gay men who defy classification in this somewhat limited lexicon.  I asked what a slightly older, skinny, gay man might be called. 

My gay friend merely shrugged his quite muscly shoulders.   “Dunno, I don’t fancy older skinny men.”   

Right then, that told me!   

Reflections From Me
My Kid Doesn't Poop Rainbows
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Single mums and happy families

Sunday was a tough day for me as a single mum.  Often I don’t even think about the fact that I am a single mum.  I am just a mum.  I love my son and I’d do anything for him.  I am like almost every other mother in that respect.   

But today my single motherhood hit me.

Single motherhood hit me because I was surrounded by happy families. 

I took Cygnet to the park to play football, to build sandcastles and to play on the swings and slides. 

I was surrounded by happy families. 

I took Cygnet to the garden centre where we bought some trailing geraniums for the balcony and had cake in the coffee shop. 

I was surrounded by happy families.

I took Cygnet to the local village fete. There was a tombola and the scouts were playing music, the local gymnastics club had put on a display and there was a stand where you could throw sponges at the scout leader. 

I was surrounded by happy families.

I took Cygnet to a local food festival.  (Yes, we had a busy day!)  There was a live band, burgers, drink and games. 

I was surrounded by happy families sprawled out on their picnic blankets. 

I know that not all families are happy, and I know that family life, for a happily married couple with 2.4 children is rarely like this:

happy families

happy families

But on Sunday it appeared to be.  On Sunday, in the bright sunshine, the world looked blissfully content in family euphoria.  At times on Sunday, I felt a bit lonely.  Had I been with a group of friends or with my family, I may still have felt lonely, because I wasn’t, I am not, part of an idyllic family set-up like the one pictured above. 

We still had a fun day.  I know that Cygnet enjoys being with me.  He loves the one-to-one attention that he gets. He loves that I am 100% focussed on him when we are together.  He wanders off at the park to play with the other kids but always turns regularly to check that I am still watching him and that I am still smiling, and I always am.  I am always watching him and I am always smiling, happy to be with him.

But, at the back of my mind there is this niggling voice.  There is a voice eating away at me.  I am enough now, but I won’t always be.  Cygnet is going to want more than just me.  He is going to want excitement.  He is going to want social interaction.  He is going to want siblings.  He is going to want those happy family days, pictured above, and that I remember from my childhood. 

I may be enough for him now, but I won’t be enough for him forever.   

My Kid Doesn't Poop Rainbows
Reflections From Me

What women REALLY want

I was sorting through my books the other day.  I confess to being one of those terrible people who has a collection of high brow books on display in my living room.  I buy them because the covers look nice, the topic is intellectual or the author is well regarded.  Sometimes, I even read them, but more often, I am ashamed to say, I do not.

Whilst sorting through my books I discovered the book ‘What do Women Want? : Adventures in the science of female desire’ by Daniel Bergner.  Now, I am not lying when I say that I have actually read this book from cover to cover.

The main thrust (please excuse the pun) of Daniel Bergner’s argument is that women are in fact biologically and naturally the less monogamous sex.  Women are ‘animals’.  Women’s natural state is hidden and controlled by societal norms.  According to Daniel Bergner, we women are conditioned to want monogamous, emotionally secure and stable relationships to enable us to bring up our offspring. We are conditioned to crave closeness and commitment. 

Daniel Bergner describes experiments in which women are shown various images whilst hooked up to M.R.I scanners and have tubes inserted into their vaginas to measure vaginal blood flow.  He is seeking to measure female arousal.  What women really want.  

My more squeamish readers might want to stop reading now…

what women REALLY want

The images include images of heterosexual sex, a naked man walking along a beach, two women kissing, a man mouthing another man’s penis, a man masturbating and a pair of bonobos (a type of non-human primate) copulating in a forest. 

Bergner states that all of the women were turned on immediately, by all of it. Based on this research, he argues that women’s sexuality is an animalistic force, constrained by culture. 

The complicating factor, the factor that Bergner seems to ignore, is that arousal does not always equal desire. 

I met up with some friends the other night.  Unsurprisingly, after a bottle or two of Prosecco between the four of us the conversation progressed to sex (not masturbation I’m afraid, this is, as I outlined in my previous blog post still very much a taboo subject).

One of my friends married quite recently having been single for a about eight years.  Not to put to fine a point on it, but she slept with quite few men during that eight year time period.  She confessed that her husband was not that great in bed.  He certainly wouldn’t make the top third were she to rank a lifetime of sexual partners.  But, she is happy.  In fact I would say she is blissfully happy with her husband and their life together.

Another friend likened the satisfaction of having sex with her husband to the satisfaction of returning overdue library books.  A damning indictment of a sex life if ever there were one, but she is also very happy.  Trust me, I know, I have seen her sad.

So, it struck me that, contrary to Bergner’s argument, what women REALLY want, isn’t all about sex.  Our desires and our turn-ons can be random…sometimes very random.

The list of things that my group of female heterosexual friends and I were turned-on by included:

A man with muscly and veiny forearms

This was me. I have a weird thing for veiny forearms.  I can’t really explain why.  It does mean that I really enjoy watching car adverts on television in which a man with a veiny forearm is driving a car and reaches out to change gear.  These are confessions that you can only make on an anonymous blog!

A man in chinos

Chinos are my pet hate, but one of my friends loves a man in chinos. She said there was something about the slightly smarter than jeans, but still casual look that really appealed. I was a little baffled.

A man wearing a pair of thick rimmed glassesWhat women really want

Now I really get this. I fancy arty and creative men and my image of a creative man is a man who wears quirky, thick rimmed glasses.  My friend also quite liked it when a man in a pair of thick rimmed glasses peered at her over the top of his glasses frame. 

A man who carries a pen knife

To my mind a pen knife is a potentially lethal weapon and a man who carries one is therefore potentially dangerous.  My friend, however, felt that the corkscrew, the tin opener and the screw driver functions on a pen knife were incredibly useful and that any man carrying one was therefore incredibly sexy.  Again, I was baffled, totally baffled.

So, Daniel Bergner, if you want to know what women REALLY want, I suggest that you analyse the above list of turn-ons produced by me and my friends.

Suffice to say Daniel Bergner’s What Do Women Want? has not made it to the book shelf in the sitting room but has rather been confined to the cardboard box in the wardrobe. 

P.S.  If you enjoyed this post, you might enjoy my post on female masturbation and my post on the men of Tinder.  


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Reflections From Me

Female masturbation

When will female masturbation no longer be taboo?  I think I would feel less embarrassed if someone walked in on me having sex than if someone walked in on me masturbating. And that’s just crazy.

I am a female masturbator.

female masturbation

To avoid this blog post just turning into another one of my rants (have you read my rant about the anti-abortion campaign?) I thought I would do a bit of research…into female masturbation and into vibrators. Women’s sexuality and vibrators certainly have an interesting history. 

Until the twentieth century it was thought that women did not experience sexual desire or sexual pleasure.  Women were merely fleshy receptacles for male lust.  ‘Ladies’ had no sex drive and were required to ‘put up with’ sex in order to keep their husbands happy and to have children. 

In this culture, where women’s sexual desire did not and could not exist, there was no explanation for women’s erotic fantasies or wetness between the legs.  Doctors, perplexed by this condition that seemingly had no explanation, started to call this syndrome ‘hysteria’ which, incidentally, is the Greek word for uterus. 

For hysteria unrelieved by husbandly lust (which was quite common) and for single women, widows and unhappily married women, doctors advised horseback riding, which apparently caused enough clitoral stimulation to enable some women to orgasm.  Hmmm. 

For those for whom horse-riding just wasn’t good enough (and I would have been one of those women), doctors developed the reliable treatment of massaging oil onto women’s genitals and inserting one or two fingers into her vagina. 

This is certainly not a treatment I would expect to receive upon visiting my local GP!   

Oh, and because women had no sexual desire, their orgasms were called paroxysms.  Women couldn’t possibly orgasm. 

Unsurprisingly paroxysms administered by the doctor became quite popular.  By the end of the day, doctors’ hands ached having massaged a steady stream of women to paroxysm.  Our poor doctors were suffering from severe tendonitis. 

The vibrator was born and proved to be a much needed labour saving device.  It was not until the late nineteenth century that electric vibrators really revolutionised hysteria relief.  The electrical vibrator produced ‘paroxysm’ quickly and reliably. 

Women started buying their own personal massagers and were able to relieve their own hysteria. 

The birth of pornography changed all of this and vibrators were soon featured in porn films.  They quickly became socially unacceptable.  It was not until the Feminist campaign of the 1970s that vibrators for female sexual pleasure became a bit more mainstream.

But female masturbation still isn’t mainstream is it?

Female masturbation isn’t really something I talk about with my female  friends.  We talk about sex, but we don’t talk about masturbation.  Even in the University course I told you about, the one in which we talked about sex a lot, we didn’t really talk about female masturbation.  It is a taboo subject.

I think it is because female masturbation is taboo that men seem to find the idea of a woman masturbating a massive turn on.  At least in my experience they men find female masturbation a turn on.  There is a ‘dirty’ narrative that accompanies female masturbation.  Only girls who love sex masturbate.  Only girls who just can’t get enough.  This is a man’s fantasy right ? (Apologies to all of my male readers who may or may not find female masturbation a massive turn on –  you can let me know below in the comments 😉 )

This modern day narrative that female masturbation is dirty and illicit and immoral and forbidden is reinforced by the likes of Mack Major, a christian author from Florida.  Mack Major has published a letter stating that female “masturbation is a direct path to Satan”.   This makes me angry.   This religious fervour directed against women is part of a powerful movement trying to control women’s bodies and women’s sexuality in the name of religion. 

So, this is me ranting against it all.

I am a woman.
I am sexual.
I am not hysterical, I am horny.
I have orgasms not paroxysms.
I am a female masturbator.
And I am proud of it.

If you liked my rant on female masturbation you might want to watch this video advocating the need to talk about female masturbation. 

P.S.  I promise it is not porn.

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The truth about being a bad mother

bad mother

I am a bad mother.

I’m feeling rubbish about myself today.  Cygnet was snotty this morning.  In fact he was more than a bit snotty, green bogies were flying everywhere, his eyes were gunky and tired, he was under the weather, he was feeling sorry for himself and he needed a day at home sitting on the sofa reading books and watching Thomas the Tank Engine on the iPad (we watch the old style one where Ringo Star does the voice over).  But I took him to nursery.

I am a bad mother.

I dropped him at nursery this morning so that I could go to work.  I knew that he wasn’t well enough to go.  I knew that he would be really upset when I left him.  I knew that he would cry a lot.  I knew that the nursery staff would look at him and think that he should be at home.  I knew that other parents would see me dropping him off and resent me because Cygnet was about to infect their child with the snot monster.  I prioritised work over an ill child. My ill child who hardly sees me as it is because of my work and the fact that his time is  split between me and his dad.

I am a bad mother. 

I did it because I had a meeting with a guy at work about my career future and some job opportunities he has available. I did it because I had been trying to get some time in his diary for a month.  This is no excuse. 

I am still a bad mother. 

I am now leaving work an hour early, an hour that’s nothing, to collect him.  Part of me is dreading collecting him because I know that I will feel guilty again.  I know that he will punish me.  I know that he will ignore me for a while because I left him…again.  

I am a bad mother.  

Cygnet deserves better and I hate myself for being a bad mother.

Absolutely Prabulous
And then the fun began...
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