All posts by Saucy Clever Clogs

About Saucy Clever Clogs

Midwife, friend, daughter, lover ... a work in progress blogging random musing on my life, kids, job, friends

Show solidarity with the Greek people and a fuck you to the capitalists.

While normal Greek people were going to work and raising their families, the minions of global economics were greedily playing with numbers. When a system exists to let individuals satisfy their pathological need to collect wealth, at the expense of common humanity, collapse is inevitable (or at least it seems that way looking back).image
We’re as much in the hands of this economic system as the Greek people, or the Spanish, or the Portuguese. Only luck decided we’d live in a country with a relatively strong economy (although there are sections of our population that have suffered under austerity measures, the situation in Greece is far worse and far more widespread)
It’s the people of Greece that need bailing out. And this crowdfunding attempt is already up and running. They idea of us all chipping in and doing something that the politicians and the bankers are too greedy to imagine, is worth €25 I think. I’m sure for some of you it would be easy to donate more.
It would be a miracal if the unconcievable amount of money was reached, but the worse that can happen is that your money is refunded and the people of Greece (and everywhere else) get to see that rest of us get how unfair the system.
Just click the link and paypal some euros to this idea. You don’t even have to more more than your thumb!


If we all wore wrist bands (mildly controversial)


There’s been a lot made about the comment by Chamali Fernando, the parliamentary candidate for Cambridge made; regarding mental health patients to wear wrist bands. Now I can understand the outrage that this has caused for some people. The fact that such an idea would cause some people more issues from such an idea, having to wear a “mark” that shows you have a health condition could cause a whole host of problems.

But it also got me thinking about this from a different point of view, now at the moment mental health is one of those things which often gets neglected when it comes to public spending. It is one of the most underfunded conditions that the NHS treats, and that can be down to a whole host of factors. Some being the lack of visibility of the conditions, others down to the social stigma attached to them. The…

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Dating with children – The end

Even the knock at the door sounded familiar. Although I don’t remember how long its been since he knocked at my door. I only remember the sound of him walking in, opening the door without reservation because he belonged in this home.

His face was beautifully familiar. I’m not sure if he noticed the welcome in my smile. It’s been about four months since I saw him. I was counting the time on my fingers only today, as I walked to collect the girls from school. I want to say it’s a coincidence that I was thinking of him on the day he turned up at my door. But I think about him everyday, more or less. So much so, I don’t really notice anymore. He’s like a ghost now, settled in my everyday thoughts.

She wrapped her arms and legs around him as he went to leave, her school cardigan bunched up around her shoulders. She always clung to him like that. At the beginning, I worried it would frighten him away; too much love from such a small and intense little girl. Later, I knew it made him feel wanted and happy. Today, I was glad for the distraction, prying her fingers from around his calf as he walked backwards out of the door. Probably for the last time.

The last few days have been painfully punctuated by a deep craving for
his arms around me; his warm body, solid, against mine. I imagine dissolving into his arms, my limbs soft with a relief that only he can provide. I remembered this as he cycled away into the frosted February evening. A bag on his back stuffed full of the little pieces of him that, until today, were left littered around my home.

All that’s left to do now is close the door behind him, against the cold air blowing into my house.

Drunken thoughts after an unexpected email

I still miss him.

I still miss the smell of the skin on his neck,
The way he always laughed because I didn’t realise I was trying to breathe him in.

I still miss waiting for him to come over,
At the window, checking the street for his car.
The sound of the children excitedly calling his name,
jumping up to greet him like puppies.

I still miss our walks in the woods,
our weekends away from the world.
The two of us hiding behind the tent surreptitiously getting stoned,
and the four of us around the camp fire.

I still miss the way he always made me laugh just before I lost my temper.
I miss overhearing my baby telling him that she loved him,
understanding that he didn’t know how to reply,
and for that he needed to hear it all the more.

I still miss the feel of his skin and the sound of his voice.
The way we made love against the kitchen counter while the kettle boiled.

The look in his eyes.
my hands in his hair.
Him tracing patterns on my naked back as we lay exhausted and happy in my bed.

I still miss the assumption of our future,
the undiscussed plans in our minds.

I still miss us,
so in love we’d forgotten what loneliness could be,

I still miss not know that it had to end

I still miss not feeling the terror of losing myself again.

I still miss being able to love him without this aching nostalgia.

I still miss him
as I bleed slowly into this silence,
waiting for these tears to dry up.


I saved myself from drowning,
I climbed onto the shore and shook the sand from my hair.
Weeks later, still standing here,
I’m wet from it.

My fear is poised above me,
holding her bucket.
The water lapping the sides,
Bitterly cold and hard to contain.

The droplets fall around me but turn to vapour before their splash can break the silence.
Far in the distance the crackle and the hiss of him approaches.

There’s an aching flame in my belly now,
low and deeper than I’m used to.
Steam rises from my skin.

The fear waits with her bucket,
Her knuckles white and straining from the weight of it.

Raising Daughters

I’ve been a mother too long; I’m weary with it. Not all the time. It comes in waves. I’m aching to tell you that I love them both desperately and I’d die for them; without this disclaimer every tap of the keyboard is tinged with guilt. But that’s what’s worn me down. The guilt… Constant and gnawing.

At 33 I’ve learned enough from life to know you really just have to answer to only yourself. There’s no inherent justice in the things that happen to us, but you’ll be happy regardless if you know who you are. Our parents were right. Life’s not fair. Growing up means accepting that it doesn’t need to be. That’s missing the point. If you live only by your own standards, you’ll be happy.

The motherhood-guilt comes from being unable to answer only to yourself. The person that I am is raising two new women for the world. I’m forever accountable to them. I have to be a good person because I’m how they see the world.

Making choices is simpler when I ask myself “what would I want my adult daughters to do” Three years ago my answer was ‘yes’. I would want them to leave a relationship that made them numb themselves to the world because they couldn’t bear to see what they were missing. Even if that means their children come from a ‘broken home’. I made that decision selfishly, I wanted to leave, but I would have wanted them to leave too. Now that the painful process is behind us. I see my babies and I did the best we could and it feels like enough. We all came out of a shitty situation in the best way we could.

I settled down young and had children barely out of my teens because I didn’t know of anything different. It’s what my mother did. I didn’t consciously choose it, I just slid into a mould I didn’t see. I hope my children see me and all the wonderful single women around me and think nothing of moving out of my home into a house of their own. Paid for by their efforts and all the better for it.

I know I’m doing the best I can. The guilt comes from knowing now that my parenting is only as good as the person I am. And I often feel like that isn’t good enough. Guilt is an inescapable facet of motherhood. As soon as the pregnancy test confirms what your swollen breasts have already told you, you remember the cigarette you just crushed out and the hangover you had the day before. Seemingly trivial guilt that blossoms, unavoidably, into deeper guilt that you know will be with you forever.

And it wears you down. The guilt is there because you love your children, but its still there and it taints everything. That why grandparents love being grandparents. They can enjoy their grandchildren. I hope my daughters make me wait for the joy of being a grandparent, but I suppose thats only ever going to be their choice to make. So the voice in my head reminds me that they will make better choices only if I’m good enough….


The Stranger

His beard smells faintly of wine and cigarette smoke.
His lips lost beneath it.
A fervid coil tightens deep inside her,
The woman thinks it’s
The way his arms crush her body against his.

She tells him to pull her hair,
Savouring the pain as his fingers tighten.
She tells him to look at her
the coil wound so tense her whole body aches with it.
She fixates on his gaze as she loudly unravels from the inside out.

As soon as her breathing slows
she chases it once more.
Hysterical seduction engulfs her loneliness,
His unfamiliarity promised annihilation
and she is desperate for it.

The stranger asks her to call out his name.
But she falters.

There’s no one else here.
Just the woman in the strangers eyes,
Nemesis mocks as she tries to drown in her own reflection.

A Birth Story

As a midwife, working on delivery suite, this feels like a story I see everyday. It’s articulated so honestly and so brutally; I feel like I’ll take this story with me into the operating theatre next time I fail to help my woman get the birth she wants.

I’m reblogging because it a story that deserves to be shared but also so that I can easily come back to it and remind myself how day to day this is for me and how life altering it is for the women I care for.


Meaghan O’Connell | Longreads | Nov. 6, 2014 | 57 minutes (14,248 words)

Download .mobi (Kindle)Download .epub (iBooks)

It was Monday, June 2nd, and I was wide awake at 6 a.m. Maybe to some of you this hour doesn’t sound remarkable, but for me it was. It was the first day in a lifetime of six in the mornings, and I made the three-hour leap all in one go.

By this point, it was 10 days past my due date, and I had a very specific and recurring fantasy of being moved around town in a hammock flown by a helicopter. I wanted to be airlifted between boroughs.

When I told my fiancé, Dustin, this wish, he was quiet for a second. He had learned to reply to me with caution, but I imagine in this case he just couldn’t help himself.

“Like a whale?” he asked.

I laughed…

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