Friday, 16 December 2011

Emigration

By the time you read this, I'll have gone. I'm off to a place where people don't cycle at you at speed when you're 9 months pregnant forcing you to leap into the road and into the path of a manic white van man. I'll be somewhere where a motorist doesn't wind down his window to call you a fat **** when you have the audacity to think he's going to stop at a zebra crossing and where women don't put their hands over their screaming child's mouth, telling them to "shut it" in the post office.

All of this after a night of no sleep and before 10am in the lovely town where I live.

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