She’s got stretch marks from those bastard children and the weight gain and loss, a saggy tummy from the cesarian overhang and wobbly thighs because she prefers sitting on her arse in the pub eating chips to moving around.
“Bugger,” you think, as you look at all the Instagram photos of the big bloggers with their shite blogs and whiny children getting free holidays, “if only I had thought of standing in front of brightly coloured walls wearing Topshop five years ago, that could’ve been me”.
Landlords and estate agents don’t like the sort of scumbags who claim housing benefit. Even the sort of scumbags who claim a housing benefit top up while working full time because the rental prices in London are out of control.
As toddlers, my children laugh in the face of toilets.
I know what teenagers get up to. I did it all, believe me. It has left me totally un-shockable, but totally in fear that my children will do it too.
Fuck the poor. Their lives are cheap.
I swear to God, I am not high maintenance – I am just incredibly unlucky with men.
It makes me want to puke when I have to thank the father of my child profusely and constantly for looking after her an evening