Sometimes its suggested to me that I should write something for a certain section (not generally by commissioning editors unfortunately). A journalist who I met last year was kind enough to tell me that she'd enjoyed reading something on here and that I should write something for 'The Trouble With Women...' which is a section in the Times Style magazine. Eva, this one's for you. No feedback from The Times yet. Do you think I went too far?
'The Trouble With Women is...They Insist on Giving You Gory Birth Details'
I’m overjoyed that you’ve given birth to your child. Really, I’m made up for you. Remember how you were stressing that you had left it too late? We’ve known each other since, like, forever. We sailed through our 20’s drinking and dancing and there was that that time when we had that sort of thing before we worked out that we were better off as friends. And now I love having you as a friend, I really do, I’m still amazingly fond and though I’ll never tell you, probably still a little bit (a tiny bit, not even worth mentioning really, maybe about 1%) in love with you but its cool. Harry’s a great bloke and anyway, we would have been a disaster. It’s great that we’re still hanging out all these years later and I even get a weird sort of buzz when my mates tell me they think you’re gorgeous after meeting you. We are close; I love you so I’m happy that you’ve got the thing that you always wanted.
You’re a Mum! How strange is that? You’ve carried that little mite around for the best part of nine months and now you have a beautiful, curious little being that can make you melt with one tiny contortion of its perfectly formed fizzog. Yes, of course I want to know what its like to give birth! Tell me! It’s an experience I can never have and although women have been doing it for thousands of years, it’s still the most visceral, primal, sort of unbelievable thing. I mean, another human being came out of you. Like, really? That is just too mind-blowing.
However, what I really don’t need is the image of you on a birthing stool (which I didn’t even know existed before you told me) that looks like half a toilet and how the midwife put a mirror down there so you could see the head emerging out of the part of you that was once the source (if I’m honest) of quite a lot of longing and curiosity on my part. And thanks to you I now know, with all that pushing (it happens a lot you say) that you did a poo in the middle of it all and how you didn’t even need that many stitches for the tear as it was only a little one and Gemma’s was much worse and she was in surgery for 2 hours. I really don’t want to think about your fanny being torn. I do love you, honest, but, please, not that. Dear God no.