I am writing to share with you the news that my loins have thus far not fruited.
Yes, I thought you might like to know that none of my genes have yet been incorporated into any new humans.
As far as I know, no zygotic goings on have so far happened as a direct consequence of any action that I have performed or failed to perform. Furthermore I am content to pay all of my income, council, car, air travel, value added, fuel and any other levies that may, from time to time, emanate from our Leaders on the basis that I derive some benefits from my financial contributions to our wider society. This, I undertake both voluntarily, through my purchases of goods and services such as Jaffa Cakes and Easyjet flights to Moldavia, and under duress [viz the death threats from Bignjuicy Council when I 'forget' to pay my
Protection Money Council Tax].
There is one thing I ask Dear Parents.
To request politely that in exchange for my various contributions to the UK financial pot, many of which are disproportionate to the services I utilise and provide you with a subsidy for the services that you utilise. To request that you do not further burden me with having to listen to you tell me in oh so many ways about how hard it is to be a parent. I can well understand your need to vent existential angst but please vent it away from my vicinity. Please don’t attempt to explain away the appalling behaviour / exam results / attitude / dress sense / hairstyle of your child by reference to your status as a ‘hardworking parent’. If you are a woman who works and you wish to describe yourself as a ‘working mum’ expect little sympathy from me. With the possible exception of parthenogenesis or unfortunate personal violations I believe that you may have some degree of responsibility for your present parental predicament. Yes, you did the deed. Now please have the good grace to accept your
life sentence blessing with good grace, a resigned smile, an open wallet and a profound understanding that I am not really interested. Of course, your child might actually be a darling. S/he may well be the apple of your eye. Probably your existence has been fulfilled by his or her existence. It’s all profound, gooey and lovely. For you. For me it’s just one more badly behaved brat that You need to Control when it’s out in public. Don’t allow it to run around screaming. Tell it to shut up when it’s whingeing on the bus – better still don’t take it on the bus, except when I’m not there. Park your monster child transportation truck with the tinted windows in a lake, not outside my house. Teach your child to approach adults with profound respect lest they be bludgeoned with a cricket bat. You get the picture. For you see, Dear Parent, I am childless. That part of my brain which transperceives brattishness as cute loveliness has not been activated. I am what is known in the trade as a selfish single. That’s me. Pity me my lonely lifestyle. Nest empty of the perfume of tiny potties. Devoid of devotion from mini me. That’s me. Loathe me if you like. I aint bovvered. Working Mums, please Work at civilising your children. Give up the notion that you can Have it All. May I propose that your child might be happier, more loving and less likely to stab hamsters if you do not see them as a lifestyle accessory to be serviced along with the washing machine. Spend less Quality Time and spend more time. With your child. The one you gave birth to. The one who needs you to spend time with it more than anything else in the world. More than the chocolate or PS2 it whinges for. It’s really whingeing for you. It needs you. This much I know.
That is all.