I remember going into the tube station and cacking myself over a gang of ‘youths’ because I had brushed against one of the girls accidentally and she had chosen to cuss me all the way to the platform. It’s a measure of how scared I was that I didn’t tell her what she could go and do with herself. Now I’m scared of a different type of gang and they’re at least fifteen years older, breasts full of milk, or brandishing bottles of formula, with a sprog on their arm. Groups of mothers or ‘Mummy Gangs.’

I had my last postnatal group yesterday and I admit that aside from willing myself to leave the house every Monday morning instead of staying home and listening to the builder bring my house to its knees…the experience of sitting with a room full of women who all conceived around the same time as me, wasn’t too horrific. There were no racist comments, nobody told me that my child weighs as much as she does because black people have heavier bones…and there wasn’t the constant intense discussions about who is doing what and being made to feel like I was at rehab. But don’t think for one minute that I managed to escape the madness of being around mothers…

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