Down from London

On working out when to leave the party

Ever since I had a kid, I have played a little game with myself at work and social events. The game is called ‘see how long I can go before mentioning her’.

Thanks to the brutal – although in fairness, not inaccurate – stereotypes (I imagine vegans have a similar problem), I walk into parties and events muttering it under my breath like a mantra. “Must… not… talk about… mum things.”

It was hardest in the early months, when I had literally no other conversation in my brain and leaving the house after dusk made me feel like a marionette come to life; walking stiffly into rooms with my arms and legs out of sync, two big patches of blusher on my waxy wooden cheeks. But even now, I turn up at things convinced I’m wearing… well, not a big flashing sign so much as a big flashing splodge of dried-on Weetabix. An embarrassing tell that needs to be acknowledged before anyone else points it out for me. Remember after lockdown, when everyone started conversations by saying “sorry if I’m being wei…