This article from the magazine supplement in Saturday's The Times made me laugh. And I mean REALLY laugh. On a train. With people around. I'm not from a big family (I have one younger brother) so I can't imagine what effect it would have on readers who can relate. I painstakingly scanned the article in for your reading pleasure. Please read it so my efforts to scan this in (which were vast - trust me) aren't in vain. Hats off to Caitlin Moran!
It was a few weeks into autumn and I hadn’t had a hair cut since before the summer solstice. My beard, long and straggly and in desperate need of trimming, was a week away from having birds nest in it. I unpolished my boots and wore some old jeans that were ripped at the knees and dirty from digging a deep hole on a particularly wet day in Highgate Cemetery. Hanging loosely over the top of those was a baggy grey jumper I spilt half a bottle of bleach over about three years ago. I looked a bit of a state, but there was a method to my madness. Today was the day I was going to ask Moon for a pay rise and I wanted to look as if I’d been trod on. On the morning I was due to ask him, my bike got a puncture not twenty yards down the road from my house. It wasn’t a polite slow puncture so that I might finish my journey on a squidgy but rideable front tyre; the thorn tore through that poor inner tube like a javelin through jelly and it had me riding on a stee...
So many truths in this . As the mother of nine I identify in a slightly distanced way. So funny...
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