They let me out in public

Having had this nasty-ass coughing virus, I have had an excuse to sit on the couch playing mind numbing flash games till my eyes went red and the couch had a dent in the shape of  my arse.

However, this luxury could not continue, cos I had to go out of my house. I needed red bull, chips and strawberry jam. Apricot jam tastes heinous with peanut butter. I should know, I had two slices of it.

So, to the supermarket. I made a special effort, showered, put on a clean shirt - fuck, I even wore pants. I hadn't worn pants in a week.

My white-ass middle class suburb has a shitload of yummy mummy's around. They all have massive pushchairs for their spawn, which they park in the middle of the aisle so you can't get past. Then they chat to their friends about who-knows-what. Yoga pants probably. They were all wearing them.

I would have made some kind of snarky yet hilarious comment about the supermarket being their social highlight, but then I remembered I hadn't left my house in a week. I'm hardly the poster child for having a life.

I chose my checkout line poorly. It was staffed by Joan, who looks to be about 60, and is seriously the slowest checkout operator in the universe. I don't know how she manages it, but she takes three times as long as anyone else. It's as though she is actually in a parallel universe where time runs slower. And she insists on packing your groceries in plastic bags which she struggles to separate with her spitty fingers. I shudder.

The mummy behind me had a kid who looked about three. Old enough for it to be weird he's still in a pushchair, but young enough to stare straight into my soul for the five minutes it took for Joan to quit fucking around and take my money.

At first I tried to make him look away. Pulled scary faces, made serial killer eyes. Not happening. So then it was like a game, because I struggle with waiting patiently at the best of times. I made stupid faces, blew spit bubbles, anything to amuse this snotty little kid. And of course, right when I'm standing there scratching my armpit, mum looks up from her New Idea. Her jaw drops. I would blush if I had any sense of shame, but since I struggle with the whole "giving a shit" thing at the moment, I simply handed Slow Joan my money, and walked off, scratching my arse.

Yes, yummy mummy, in twenty-odd years your precious little baby could be just like me.