MY MEMORIES of the old, soft days of parenting seem to have merged into one — a generic day, punctuated by kisses, which went like this: “Drink your milk — last drop, one shoe on — now the other one, hold my hand, five-a-day, sharing is caring — yes — even with scones, bath-time, pyjamas, time for bed, two stories, there’s no such thing as monsters, night, night,” sofa, glass of wine, box-set.
MY FRIEND’S daughter is expecting her first baby and talking about childbirth at my kitchen table, in a manner which is best described by the words, “unsuspecting” and “credulous”.
I’M UP on the west coast in deepest rural Ireland, lying on the sofa in a friend’s sitting room.
EVERY spring, as sure as daffodils bloom, so does the idea that women should worry, diet and exercise their way to bikini-ready bodies.
MY SISTER, whom I am visiting in Sligo, has been embarrassed into attending a “unique social event” by a male work colleague.
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