In a city in southern England, there lived a woman. She was the wife of a Keifer Sutherland lookalike, and slave to the role of parent, except, hold on: Not today she wasn’t, because she had just dropped her children off at nursery!
Skipping to the car, shouting ‘FREEDOM’ in random strangers faces, she was ready to Braveheart the shit out of life. She was on her way to the gym, in a bid to regain some of her former body, which had slowly been destroyed by children, and making poor food substituions, such as wine instead of water, and Netflix instead of vegetables.
Skipping to the car, she could feel the pounds melting away already-plus, surely the burden of trying to be a good mum weighed her down by at least 3 stone? She was sure that if she weighed herself, that three stone would also have just fallen right the fuck away!
Anyway, today, she was off to try Sh’Bam-yes, she had no fucking clue either. In the car, she discovered that she could listen to the actual radio, with nobody moaning over the music, and nobody threatening to dump on demand, if they didn’t get to listen to the Horrid Twatting Henry audio book. What’s this? she mused, Radio 1?! How novel, she thought! Except she was expecting Chris Moyles, and was disappointed by the replacement-of course, she had been caught in a time warp, and had forgotten that it had been five years since she had listened to the radio with nobody screaming in her face, and Chris Moyles had fallen off the edge of the planet.
She became disheartened by the choice of music the newcomer was playing, and she suddenly remembered that Radio 1 had very strict rules about the type of music they played-the first being the song had to be less than two minutes old, the second being it had to have no staying power whatsoever.
But what was this? Outkast?? Hey Frigging Ya=TUNE!!!!!! The mum was definitely in the mood for Sh’Bamming the shit out of life now, forget Braveheart. She was going to shake it, shake it , shake it like a polaroid fucking picture. Outkast! She still couldn’t believe it! She also remebered that they were responsible for the legendary lyrics: ‘I know you like to think your shit don’t stink, but but lean a little bit closer, see, roses really smell like poo poo poo,’ which is actually a metaphor for LIFE, is it not? (Fact: original lyrics are ‘smells like boo boo boo’, which apparently means poo? Confused much? There’s entire forums dedicated to debating it, who knew!)
She further skipped into the gym, and found that Sh’Bam was a glorified Latin-American dance class, with lots of gyrating, hip thrusting, and boob wobbling-there were a few jumps thrown in, just to test the pelvic floor of the mainly postnatal women in attendance.
The mum’s dreams of shaking it like a polaroid picture were shattered into a million pieces, when her pelvic floor didn’t meet Sh’Bam standards, and she let out a bit of wee.
The moral of the story? Do your fucking pelvic floor exercises.
*I update this kind of ‘series’ on Facebook if you fancy following it there!*