I was in Tesco last Tuesday, standing in the freezer aisle with a bag of frozen peas in one hand and my cherry vape in the other, when it hit. Not the usual period cramp that makes you want to fold in half. This was the other one. The one that starts in your guts…
We met at a birthday do in Dalston. A mutual friend had dragged me along because the guest list was thin and the wine was free. He was standing near the speakers looking like he would rather be anywhere else. I was in the same hoodie I wear most nights, glasses on, blue nails…
Class. That’s the word they skip. Every panel, every thread, every long-read that claims to speak for all women and then spends three thousand words on the psychic cost of unpaid emotional labour without once mentioning who actually does the labour when the heating’s off and the kids need feeding and the shift starts at…