On Report

The boy is back from school. He maintains a very nonchalant approach to education; he just does it and doesn't stress. I want him to work hard, work hard, but he won't join me in my working class neuroses, he just you know, gets on with it, feet up, ACDC on the iPod, chewing on a pen. His hair gets longer by the day, and he's no way near as insecure as me. When I grow up, maybe I want to be like him.

He said he had a glance at his report: 100% attendance, 7 A*s  and 10 As, he's on the school council, and the rugby team, he's in the classroom very early most days, occasionally he gets into trouble. It's an academically challenging school and he got in by merit, but if he heads off the rails they'll sure as hell kick him out.

I'm not writing this because I want to say how shit hot we are: we're not. My sitting room kind of looks like a bedsit - I'm surrounded by detritus such as nail polish, mugs, soup bowls, a heater, novels, trashy magazines, and clothes on the radiator. I'm actually sitting on my dressing gown as I write this, my shoes are askew and I'm like an old woman with her whole life on a tray by her bed -- except it's not all on a tray by my bed, but on the rug on the floor by my feet.

I just want to say to the stupid fecking Lib-conning-Tory-baaaa-stards who seem to be making daily life that little bit harder for single mothers/fathers/low income parents with each gobshite policy; shove that in your pipe and smoke it you bunch of 'two parents are better than one' 'anti-handout' reprobates. There's nothing wrong with giving struggling families or individuals a helping hand because eventually - just like our babies - we learn to feed ourselves. Take away the spoon and you'll have to feed us, and our kids, forever.