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I say to him “I thought you liked orange juice with the bits in it” and he says “No I like orange juice without the bits in it” and as it’s only been 45 minutes since he told me he bumped into Kate last night and she looked “pretty sexy…like some kind of, you know, hostess”, I take his glass of orange juice (with the bits in it) and I throw it across the room so it hits the corner of his wooden bed frame and smashes across the floor. I’m glad the little pieces of glass fly in all kinds of directions so I can only hope that he tramples on a chunk. I leave his stupid shared house, full of arrogant pigs, and I storm home to think about what I can do next.

I sit on my bed to gather my furious thoughts and then I hear an annoying, high pitched, buzzing sound coming from my dvd player. I consider throwing it out the window but it’s too heavy and I don’t want to make a mess. I pull the plug out and in a state of exaggerated rage I carry it to a charity shop. The sweaty and slightly overweight guy in the charity shop says “Thanks for your donation” and I go home, change my bed sheets and feel much better for 3 minutes. Then I think about smashing up everything in my kitchen but again, I don’t want to make a mess.

I think about running away but I can’t find the right shoes. I take my phone and I scream to him, at the top of my text message voice, “I WISH I’D NEVER MET YOU!” and he doesn’t even flinch. I decide I’m not going outside for at least a week and I don’t have the right shoes anyway. I look at my wonderful television and my television says to me “Stay here with me and I’ll make you feel better”. I say to my television “But I love him” and my television says to me “I know. But you can love me now and you don’t even have to brush your hair”.



I’m seated at a table next to a loud, cocky music journalist who says he’s just finished working with Kayne West and I laugh but he says he’s serious and I laugh again. He says he likes my purse and then I let him buy me a couple of drinks. He keeps looking at me and talking to me as if he wants to sleep with me and the more he tells me about how much he doesn’t get on with his family, the more I think I may as well. Then, I don’t know why, perhaps it’s because we’re at a wedding, but I spend a few (quite painful) minutes telling him the story of when I was 8 years old and I brought my favourite Barbie into school for Show and Tell. I say, “So I told the class that I’d dressed her in yellow… because I was happy my dad was coming home for the weekend and then afterwards the boys teased me for bringing a doll to school! Anyway I was so confused so I said to this one boy, his name was Thomas, I said ‘Thomas! Why don’t you love me?’ which I know is a bit crazy but I was only a kid but you know what he did? That little bastard started crying… uncontrollably and he was shouting that I was weird and I couldn’t believe it so I put my lunchbox down, I remember it was a Nellie the Elephant one, and I pushed him over in the middle of that playground and you know what I said? I said to him ‘NEVER hold my hand OR GEMMA’S HAND ever again’ Gemma was nice and everything but I remember I was fed up of her getting all the boys all the time”. The music journalist looks at me like I’m mad and then there’s the bride’s speech, the groom’s speech, the best man’s speech and the father of the bride’s speech and everyone claps. And then the music journalist looks at me like he doesn’t want to sleep with me anymore and I’m glad because I think he’s awful really and I don’t want to sleep with someone who’s awful because in the end I don’t want to marry someone I think is awful.

Yet when I’m home I write a letter to my Pill and I say to my Pill “Make me beautiful!” and my Pill writes back (taking the key points) “I can’t make you beautiful. I can only try to stop those boys from impregnating you”. I think it’s typical of my Pill to say this. It expects me to take it at the same time every day but in return it can’t 100% promise anything and I find this very frustrating. If I can’t trust my Pill then who can I trust?


I’ve been here before and the doctor says to me “Is there a chance you’re pregnant?” I say “Well yes, there’s always a chance isn’t there?” and the doctor says “Sorry? Do you think you may be pregnant?” I say “No. I haven’t had sex in a long time” and the doctor’s computer asks me if I’m okay and if I want a hug and I tell the computer that I’m okay. The doctor looks at me as if I’m supposed to tell him about my whole life in eleven minutes.

I am a young teacher and writer. Aimed at young modern women, you can read my short stories and essays etc. at:


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