Thirty at Thirty: The List

My friends and I have spent twenty years talking about our periods: when we're 'on'; what our flow is like; how often we change our protection; which protection is best- there is no topic blood- related we don't discuss. Until one day, I uttered the word, 'Mooncup'. I may as well have punched one of their children in the face. They looked at me like I'd just come and 'periodated' (a common verb used in our friendship group) on their favourite bedding. No, no, no, was the universal response I got. One of my friend's husbands, an unwilling participant in most of our period- related conflabs, actually told me, no, warned me NOT to discuss 'Mooncup' or its equally 'disgusting' sister 'Shethinx' on my blog or Insta for fear of freaking out all the 'normal' people who may read it. Unfortuantely for Mooncup, (and other similar products, which are internally inserted to collect menstrual blood and then emptied int...

A letter hit the mat. Car Tax was due. Bank balance: zero. I looked around my flat. What could I sell that was worth something to someone? Bingo. My wedding rings. Well, I didn't need them anymore, did I? Gathering dust on my dressing table, burning a hole in my heart every time I caught a glimpse of them. They had to go. That got me thinking: what else did I own of value that I could make money from? My ex was generous: Mulberrys, Louies, Furlas filled my wardrobe in various forms but, as I desperately downloaded the Ebay App to flog them all, I stopped. Sell them? And then what? Divorced, skint, living in a two-bed flat I could hardly afford WITHOUT anything decent to my name? No. I'd only have to go out and buy a new handbag, probably a supermarket cheapie whose handles would inevitably fall off within a few weeks of over stuffing it with the usual amount of crap every average teacher, mother, woman carries around with her. Off to the landfill it would go...along with...