Gather round children, let me tell you about my youth… 

We would go out

on a Friday and Saturday night

and on a Thursday because the local club had an 80s night.

And on a Wednesday because they put on a karaoke night.

And on a Monday to celebrate getting through the first day back at work.

And Kate would always invite us out on a Tuesday because she knew I wanted Nachos.

We would drink


cheap, nasty wine. Bottles of the stuff. Because we thought we looked sophisticated.

Or we’d get jugs of cocktails from Wetherspoons that were 5:1:3 parts ‘ice water slop: alcohol: shit cola.’

We’d guzzle Smirnoff alco-pop from glass bottles that left a thick cement of sugar on our teeth.


We would have bright blue tongues from the WKD, or green tongues from the apple sourz – and sugar highs from the ‘fruit’ in the Breezers.

We would down shots of Aftershock that burnt our retinas,

and sambuca that some idiot suggested lighting,

or just sip Baileys in a whisky glass with ice like we were some Russian Bond beauties in a Skii lodge –

not a posse of pillocks in Birmingham.

And we’d dance.

We’d “ooh! push it (push it real good)” on podiums and wear barely there skirts.

We’d discover the bruises the next day from falling off the podiums.

We would sing,

badly on Kareoke. Eurythmics or Shania Twain or Robert Palmer.

and we’d would flirt.

we would wear corsets with jeans or mini skirts with playgirl bunny t-shirts.

We’d wear concealer on our lips, Vaseline on our eyelids and white eye-liner.

We were thinner than any of us appreciated.

525867_112104832261059_831007570_nAnd we’d snog.

We’d snog for days.

And the next day we’d laugh about who we pulled and text them on our Nokias.

We had no idea what they looked like because we had no cameras.

No smart phones.

We hovered in the dark with no flash, no selfies, no tagging, no permanent reminders.

We traveled

to cheap holidays on the Tenerife strip, and Magaluf and across the world.


and we loved 

boys who were never that important.

We stuck together.

We fought

We had tiny tiffs – fixed with a text and a bottle of wine.

We dreamed

about what we’d be when we grew up, when we were successful, when we had big money,

when we could bring anyone home

we could do whatever we wanted because we were out of mum and dad’s.

When we found ‘The One’ who would make our lives complete.

We would be free.




we go out

one or two nights a year

or we go on little self labeled dates (day release) with the other half while the grandparents watch our son.

But we don’t tend to.

We would rather stay in.

Going out is exhausting; expensive.

Getting dressed up. Wearing heels. We can’t take it.

And we drink.

Shots of Gaviscon.

G&Ts trying to lose the self labeled ‘baby weight’.

posh wine from Waitrose to try and tell ourselves we’re middle class – not people who should drink a lot less.

Or we are growing a baby so we drink milk or orange squash (like the children we’ve sprung).

And we dance.

like pillocks at ‘Mini movers’ to out dated nursery ryhmes

to the ‘Makka Pakka’ and ‘Tombliboo’ dance on ‘In The Night Garden‘ half way through a conversation about life insurance like it’s perfectly routine.

And we sing 

the wheels on the bus, or wind the bobbin up (what the fuck is a bobbin?) or the alphabet song, over and over and over and over.

And we flirt

with the bin men so they’ll take our extra bags of nappies and milk cartons and empty wine bottles.

with people in the queue so they’ll let you pay for his chocolate buttons real quick – so you can shut him up.

we don’t snog

and we travel

to child friendly caravan parks and detached cottages and mum meet-ups.

We love

our children.


We love our children.


We love our children

1078622_283945295077011_1397594399_oWe love our children


We love the partner we chose – if we are having a good day.

We love our parents more.

We love our families.

We love kind strangers.

We fight

with our partners, daily It’s your turn you bastard”

with our children “Go to bed, for the love of Christ”

and with our old friends:

we grow apart, we drift away, we make mistakes, we can’t fix our differences with a text and a bottle of wine.

We aren’t the same.

We wear clothes with more stretch and functionality.

And we dream

of a full night’s sleep

of a night off

of a holiday

of being slimmer


So we go to bed at 7pm on a Saturday night because sleep is sleep and we don’t care what the clock says.

And the neighbours are having a party again.

Probably swigging alcopops and doing shots and singing Kareoke and snogging.

And you pop another Rennie in your gob and roll over and hate them.

And the baby kicks.

And you smile.

And you think about making pancakes for breakfast tomorrow and pushing your child on the swings in the park.


Maybe the sun will come out.



Why the mummy hangover is the worst hangover in the world

mummy's writing darling

Why the mummy hangover is the worst hangover in the world

It’s three o’clock in the morning and a man whispers into your ear the most erotic phrase known to a mum:

You promised you’d get up with them.

What? What the F… Where am I? What is that noise? Is that a recorder? and….and… a tambourine? Who gave them those? I will find them and I will kill them. Why can I taste gherkins? and salt? What day is it? Is that a tattoo… Percy & Thomas BFF? Whose shoes are those? When did you get a fillet of fish? Why don’t we have painkillers in this house?

What’s that smell? Oh…the…indignity! 

I don’t get out much. I think I can count on my hands how many times I have been ‘out’ since becoming a mum. My social life basically now revolves around Line of Duty and drinking wine at home in my pyjamas. A Saturday night is when you’ll most likely see me opening up the Just Eat app and perhaps, tackling a 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle of a nice harbour or steam engine. I generally go to bed at eight thirty unless Love Island is on.

So when I get to go out I am more than a little giddy. In fact – I am ecstatic. I am ruddy thrilled. I’m like a toddler at toast time. And that is before I start drinking.

The mummy hangover is like a regular hangover but times 8000. Why? Well.

  1. You were already drunk before you went out – drunk on the idea of a night off from the kids, drunk on freedom, drunk on getting dressed up, drunk on life!
  2. You are too excited. People will find you strange. Stranger than usual. You’re like a small Shitzu humping the legs of any adults there because you can talk about things other than superworm and Thomas the shunting engine.
  3. You will be overly generous with your money and buy drinks for everyone there, strangers even because you “never go out! The drinks are on me! I love you all” even though you basically live on tax credits and selling old coats on ebay.
  4. you’ll want to drink all the drinks. No more cold tea for me but oooh. Look at the choice. I’ll have to have all the drinks because I only go out once a year. So let me just taste all the cocktails on the menu.
  5. Before you leave you’ll tell your other half that you’re so grateful to be able to go out and leave the kids with him that “you’ll get up with them in the morning.”
  6. Typical hangover cures are off limits to you. Full English breakfast? Nope. Hot shower? Nope. All you’ve got is Balamory, cold coffee and a three hour aimless search for painkillers in a house where all you can find is junior calpol and antacids.
  7. Noise, so much noise. Noise. Too much noise.
  8. Bed? No you can’t go back to bed.
  9. My head. My head.
  10. I usually go to bed at eight o’clock. You will never ever ever get back those hours of sleep you missed.


So there you have it.

On an unrelated note. I went to see Absolutely Fabulous last weekend in a cinema that served alcohol. I can’t remember much of the film but I can tell you that I woke up in my bra, I had seemingly bought every meal that Macdonalds make on the way home and had an Uber bill for close to £40.

My husband informs me that I woke him up on my arrival home as I couldn’t figure out how to shut the door and was just slamming it continually against the frame.