Girls. Fun.

A tiny bit of writing done today – notes on the second and third chapters of book three. The first chapter is provisionally called ‘fairy cake’. The third will be called ‘bovril’s walk’. Not sure about the second one yet.

I doubt the chapters will end up with titles, but it helps me keep track. I’m really looking forward to writing ‘screwdriver’ and ‘bites down on a towel’.

The note-taking was done in my car on the back of a class 2 NI contributions bill while McTiny was sleeping. We were outside West View Leisure centre waiting for a class to start. There was a programme about The Kennel Club on Radio 4, which inspired me.

The class itself was something to write home about. I could store it in the place where I repress the rest of my trauma, but that drawer is getting full. So for your reading pleasure: the class. A kind of yoga / circuits / physio / new circle of hell type of class where you can take your progeny and be taught moves to ease your outraged abdomen back together.

I talked myself into going. Like this:

Come on Jenn, you need to get out of the house. It’ll make you feel better. Don’t be a tit, you might make friends.

I should have listened to the other Jenn, the Jenn who was quite happy being a tit and urging me to stay at home in my brown cardigan and scribble on the back of envelopes, leaning on McTiny’s back while he slept on my knee.

Picture me, if you will, running about in a circle with my arms outstretched, making little circles with my hands. Sleep deprived, shy and angry. Not owning the correct trainers either, I discovered. They played music.

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun (that’s all they really want).

What girls want:

not to have fun of any kind, better trainers – without having to enter a shoe-shop,
two hours more sleep, Bombay Sapphire, cake, not to walk in the sun.

I was on the brink of pretending I was nipping away for a wee and not coming back, (when you gonna live your life right?) but they had a Health Visitor on the door with a sheaf of leaflets about breast feeding and drinking and I didn’t dare. 

7 responses to “Girls. Fun.”

  1. sara says:

    Oh dear. I feel mean for laughing but I did so in an empathetic way I promise!

  2. They also played:

    Venus by Bananarama

    I’m your Venus! I’m Your Fire!


    I Will Survive by Gloria Gaynor.

    I told the Mr all of this and he thought I was making it up.

  3. sara says:

    Wow. That is amazing. Wow.

  4. It really, really wasn’t. I kept getting near hysterical tears in my eyes and had to bite down on my urge to start throwing birth balls about and swearing.

    All the other ‘girls’ looked like they were having actual fun though. That was the worrying bit.

  5. Kerry says:

    Oh Jenn, Dante could never have envisaged something as horrendous as the mother baby exercise group. My best friend goes to one called Buggy Bootcamp. It’s in a park (so a public place) and they use the buggies as part of the routine ‘circle your buggy’ ’tilt the buggy! tilt the buggy!’ It makes me weep. It’s too late for her but save yourself.

  6. rachel says:

    Oh Jenn, that sounds truly awful. I was made to do group stuff by my HV and I hated her for it. I am NOT a group person, particularly groups where I feel my parenting is being judged (it probably wasn’t in any case but I thought it was and that was enough) I went to an aerobics class once and walked out after 10 minutes because I could no longer trust myself not to shout F**K OFF at the instructor.
    You deserve gin and cakes and at least an hour of doing nothing as reward.

  7. Holly says:

    Jenn, thank you. I’m so sorry for the knee-knocking trauma (I’m too scared to ask about the undoubted lycra featured in class) but take solace in knowing this post brightened my Friday morning in an exceptional way. Tits do, after all, like to know they’re not alone – even if they don’t particularly like company.

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