Free Mummy Said the F-Word by Fiona Gibson

sake of our son. I am on the brink of asking my husband to leave, but fear that I’d be making the biggest mistake of my life.
    What should I do?
    Ginny, Lincs.
    Dear Ginny,
    How the fuck should I know?
    Love, Caitlin
    No , that won’t do. I am agony aunt on Britain’s weekly parenting bible, so I’d better dredge up something.
    Should she leave him or not? I study Ginny’s elegantly looped handwriting, awaiting inspiration. Nothing. The sea monkeys drift lazily.
    Damn, this isn’t going to be easy. Get it wrong and I could be partly responsible for the break-up of a marriage, which, although not rosy-glow perfect, is probably just suffering from a new-parenthood slump. Could Ginny sue me?
The defendant, an unqualified jobbing journalist, advised our client to begin divorce proceedings. As a result, she has suffered considerable emotional distress
.
    I fling down Ginny’s letter and rake through the others for a more trivial problem, but can’t find any. Nadia from Upminster fears that she has obsessive compulsive disorder, often hurrying home from playgroup to check that she hasn’t left a gas ring on. Gutted from North Wales found condoms in her boyfriend’s jeans pocket. Guilt-ridden from Derbyshire is planning to move to Tuscany with her married boss and doesn’t know how to break it to her children. It seems that no one has minor concerns. If they do, they don’t bother writing to Pike about them. These women are on the brink of walking out on their men, of leaving their children, of setting their hair on fire. One woman is sleeping with her sister’s husband: ‘I know it’s wrong, and I hate myself every time I’m with him, but I can’t bear to let go of the one good thing in my life.’
    She expects
me
to tell her what to do?
    Fury and misery emanate from the pile. I can virtually smell it. It’s probably impregnating our kitchen table, seeping into the cracks. With half an hour before school pick-up, I gather up the letters and dump them beside my PC. My new file entitled ‘Prob Lady’ will, I hope, lend me an air of efficiency and purpose. I start to type:
    Dear Ginny,
    I’m sorry to hear that things are difficult for you. Have you tried telling your husband about how abandoned and desperate you feel?
    Oh, please. Spare the droopy counsellor-speak. I delete and try again:
    Dear Ginny,
    It’s quite clear that your husband is an utter pig.
    No, no. It may be true, but it’s hardly going to help her.
    Dear Ginny,
    The first year with a new baby is never easy. You are exhibiting definite signs of post-natal depression.
    So I’m a doctor now, am I? Despite having spent not one minute studying medicine, I have somehow become a world-renowned expert on post-partum illness.
    What
do
I know exactly? How to be a secretary in a magazine office and a half-arsed freelance writer? How to paint Lola’s nails, make Travis squeal with delight with raspberry-blows on his belly and apply Jake’s verruca lotion?
    I type:
    Dear Ginny,
    I suggest that you make an effort to meet other women who will understand what you’re going through.
    Right, like the hatchet-faced women at Three Bears parent and toddler group, to which I’d hauled Lola for ‘creative play’? I’d decided it wasn’t for me when Chief Bear, a formidable woman in a vast poo-coloured gathered skirt, had emerged from the kitchen bellowing, ‘Caitlin, did you do teas and coffees today?’
    ‘Um, yes …’ I’d muttered.
    ‘You used the sugar bowl from the pensioners’ lunch-club cupboard, not the Three Bears cupboard!’
    I hadn’t known whether to apologise profusely or start weeping, so I’d just shrugged and tried not to look scared.
    ‘You used the WRONG SUGAR BOWL!’ Chief Bear had thundered.
    At which point, to avoid being bound to a rack and having boiling oil flung at me, I’d grabbed a startled Lola and stuffed her into her buggy. As we’d barged home, I’d decided that being trapped in a dingy kitchen with a grumbling