Start with a super-sad song. One you’ve played over and over before, but never fully wept to. Put it on loudly and sit somewhere you usually don’t. The carpet. The bath. The filthy kitchen floor.

Then, grab something comforting. Chocolate, biscuits, wine, all of the above. Consume them while staring blankly into space, imagining that somewhere someone else is doing the same. Feel the weight and pain of all the shattering hearts that exist on the same planet.

Cry.

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Sometimes I wonder if I’ve learned anything since I was at school, when I used to fall madly in love with any guy who showed a vague interest, before desperately wishing I knew how to act on it.

Then I remember how it was, and that being young was difficult, stressful, and quite, quite absurd.

I haven’t arranged a guest blog for this week – sorry about that. In lieu, please enjoy this extract from my own diary, circa 1998. In it, I am trying to explain the complex emotional dynamic in my group of slightly nerdy, oh-so-romantic friends.

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Last week I put up the first in a three-part series by Mary. Mary is (or was) a 24-year-old virgin, and she wanted to write a series detailing her first-time experiences, and tackling some of the myths and misconceptions about virginity.

Read part one here, if you haven’t already, in which Mary meets A on Tinder, is delighted to discover just how soft penis skin is, and almost gets busted by a passing cyclist when she gets a bit handsy in public. When you’re up to date, check out part 2 below, where we join Mary and A as they’re working out what to do next…

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Yesterday I read an article by a ‘broody feminist‘ I wasn’t, initially, sure what one of these was, so I clicked through wondering if it might be a new faction of feminism about which I could have an opinion (I think I probably fall into the category of ‘Opinionated feminists‘, or somewhere on the venn diagram where they cross over with ‘Drunk feminists’ and ‘Feminists who like crisps’). It turns out that a ‘broody feminist’ is just a feminist who wants children. The author, Charlotte Gill, explains that:

“as feminism has progressed, saying you want babies has become deeply unfashionable – synonymous with “I have no career ambition.” On the other hand, a child-free existence has been painted as progressive and exciting, sold successfully by celebrities like Jennifer Aniston and Kylie Minogue.”

Which is interesting, because it’s not really true. Sure, it is very slowly becoming more acceptable for women to say ‘I don’t want kids’, and we’re no longer treated like we’re the gruesome offspring of the Childcatcher and Cruella DeVille. But I think calling it ‘fashionable’ is quite a leap – given Daily Mail headlines that screech at us about our biological clocks, and misguided advice by people like Kirstie Allsopp about how we should all have a baby or two before we try and get a degree. I won’t spend too long on the truth or otherwise of the argument, because I’m sure you know that while many people are fighting to emphasise that you don’t have to choose to procreate, there’s still an assumption that you will. There’s definitely not, as Charlotte seems to be arguing, a dominant feminist view that parenthood is a Bad Choice for everyone.

If I could wave a magic wand that changed our narrative around children, I wouldn’t be arguing that fewer women should choose to have them, or that we should all have them at certain times or what have you, I’d change it to this:

• Having kids is one of many options when it comes to making life choices.
• It shouldn’t be assumed that anyone either will or won’t have kids: no matter what their gender, relationship status, etc.

In short, having kids is a bit like training for a marathon – it can be incredibly rewarding, it’s definitely admirable, but it’s also a lot of effort so not everyone wants to do it. Anyway, I’m not here to talk about kids – have ’em, don’t have ’em, whatever makes you happy. Here I want to talk about silence…

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