After the best part of a bottle of wine, the discussion turned to reminiscing on momentous occasions of 2010.
Mr A is silent for a while, in what I presuppose to be awed reverence and remembrance at the thought of Golden Boy’s birth. Pause complete, he pipes up with, ‘All I can remember is the smell when they cut you open; like offal at the butchers… only more pungent as it was warm’. Pop! The rose tinted memory bubble surrounding GB’s birth is now tainted for eternity by a smell that no amount of Oust will out.
There comes a point in a woman’s life AD (after delivery) when she feels she has plunged the depths of dignity-defying degradation. Legs akimbo, screaming like a banshee, while naked from the waist down and carrying more excess body weight than a heavy duty sumo wrestler, it’s hard to cling onto the smallest shard of dignity. But now I see that Dante was onto something: Hell hath more levels than a woman simply slit open.