2024. 20 bloody 24. Holy moly. I’m still stuck somewhere in 2018, drunk at a wedding flicking my hair to Proud Mary. On New Year’s Eve, courtesy of Jools Holland, I had the unwelcome realisation that Sugababes released their first single in the year 2000. Is it actually genuinely feasibly fucking possible that Sugababes have

This week I bumped into an old colleague. I was dashing home from Sainsbury’s with the girls to meet the carpet chap who was coming to measure our carpet-less hall, and the heating engineer who would – please God – repair our boiler. I saw her at the precise moment she saw me, which is

Yesterday, friends, was a shit show. Georgia, who I suspect is approaching a three month growth spurt, was hell bent on being no more than three inches from my boobs at any given moment. And Ruby, approaching threenager status, was hell bent on causing chaos in every part of the house while I was trapped

On a Thursday afternoon in October Georgia Daisy announced herself to the world by flying through her dad’s hands “like a bar of soap” and landing on our bathroom floor. Milk monster, snuggle bunny and a massive set of lungs, she’s been bringing newborn joy and chaos ever since. But I’m in too deep to

Our daughter shouts this on the reg. It’s unnecessary – both the statement and the volume at which it’s delivered – because I have no interest in touching the crumpled sheet of Pepper Pig stickers or her soggy Shreddies leftover from breakfast (if you wanna eat those now, love, that’s on you). The ‘mine’ assertions

…if you want to become a parent. You must dive into it like a fool.”* I fear this post may contain some such things. So, to any prospective parents: I’m sorry for the unreserved honesty. Should you choose to keep reading, know that you are probably more competent than me.    — Lately, stuff keeps

She’s two! TWO. Two whole years (and three weeks) old. Holy faaark, that went fast! I wrote a sentimental post about being her mum and what it was teaching me when she turned one – and who am I to break a birthday tradition? This year, I’ve also been thinking a bit about what life’s

It’s the first 1st of January I haven’t spent banging on about my New Year’s resolutions. That, friends, is because I’m not making any. And neither should you. You’re bloody wonderful exactly as you are. It’s a decision I landed on over dinner after a few margaritas last night. My friend Chris suggested that not

We were having lunch at a local pub last weekend, and on a table close by sat a man scrolling through Instagram as he ate a roast and drank a pint. Meanwhile, what we presume was his daughter – age seven or eight – sat opposite, a kids’ roast in front of her, watching him.

There are moments lately where I find myself teetering on the edge of composure, sanity, respectability – call it what you will. It’s as if the most insignificant incident could send me over the edge into an abyss of rage. And there, I’d revel. I’d shout and swear and there’d be a momentary relief from

I’m wondering if, over a week since the Euros final, it’s safe to admit that I thought I might go mad if I heard one more person say “It’s Coming Home”. Anything repeated often enough gets annoying in the end…right? Still, I did enjoy the national enthusiasm for the line. It suggests a sort of

Avril Lavigne, I hear ya. Since becoming a mum I’ve encountered a whole new world of accessories, literature, hashtags, headlines. All this stuff that, just a couple of orbits of the sun ago, completely bypassed me. Before I joined the masses of parents that are bombarded with – and often blindsided by – the racket