On… Sexual Violence and Misrepresentation


I have been thinking about trauma a lot lately, my own in particular, but also on a wider scale.

I remember once disclosing to an ex that I had CPTSD (Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). He was a soldier and, even though he knew of my multiple experiences and traumas, he still asked why I would have CPTSD.

“Erm, Rape?” I remember saying to him, dumbfounded that he would question me.

The more I think of this though, the more it makes sense. Hadn’t I had the very same thoughts when I was told? Hadn’t I felt a recoil at the notion? I wasn’t a soldier, I had never been at war, and there is the crux of the issue.

How abuse and trauma is portrayed.

Think of how Rape is portrayed in the media, whether that is through the news, articles, or tv and film. The general tropes I have found to be popularised are:

  • It’s night
  • The rapist sneaks up behind the unsuspecting victim or breaks into their home.
  • There is a struggle, often some form of violence
  • The victim will scream for help
  • The victim will clearly say ‘no’ at least once, but usually several times
  • The Rape happens

Now, I’m not dismissing this as a reality, there are victims of Rape and sexual violence whose stories sound a lot like this. I’m simply saying that for a lot of victims it’s not so. I know my experiences of Rape looked nothing like this and it’s clear from the statistics that this is the case for many survivors.

“Only one in 10 of rapes are committed by ‘strangers’. The rest are committed by someone the survivor knows – such as a friend, neighbour, colleague, partner, or family member. People are raped in their homes, their workplaces and other settings where they previously felt safe.”

Rape Crisis England and Wales

So, then the question in my mind becomes, why?

Why does the media over-represent sexual violence and Rape in this way to the point of fetishization, while they under-represent the reality of these crimes which happen to all genders, not just cis women, to the point it is detrimental?

Well, I’ve got some theories.

DISCLAIMER: The thoughts below are my own mind’s musings, thoughts, and opinions, not undisputed fact. Please do not take these as fact or, ‘the way its is.’ Critical thinking and fact checking should always be the first port of call.

I was first raped at the age of 14 by my—then much older—boyfriend. He sexually abused and raped me over the entire course of our relationship (I’m slightly foggy of the length of this but I believe no longer than a year).

There are a few moments that stand out in this.

We were kissing on his bed and he whispered in my ear, “Do you want me to finger you?”

I froze. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to do or say and, while this was happening, his hand had navigated my jeans and underwear and was now touching me.

I was giving him a hug goodbye and he took out his erect penis and put my hand on it. I took it off and he held me tight to him while he masturbated to completion, his ejaculate going onto his carpet.

We were out at the seaside and he said to me, “If we keep having sex we need to think about protection.” I remember replying, “We aren’t.”

I think that’s the closest I ever really got to clearly and firmly stating I didn’t want to.

I don’t remember the first time, or the last time. It has all become an amalgam in my head. I’m sure I said I didn’t want to, but that could be my shame filling in the blanks in my memory.

The second time I was raped (as in, the second person who raped me), I was 17. My friend’s boyfriend had been helping me with some DIY and it had gotten late. I agreed to him staying over. He slept in my bed with me. We were fully clothed. When I woke up, I was naked. When I questioned him about why I wasn’t wearing clothes his response was,

“Be very careful about what you are implying.”

I have never reported either of these incidents. I was even hesitant about saying I let him stay in my bed because of my shame.

The reason?

I never considered them rape; I still have arguments in my brain about it.

I mean, neither of them fit what Rape ‘traditionally’ looks like according to the media, and as a teenage girl I had consumed enough to know this. I didn’t want to talk about it. I was ashamed. I had let this happen. It wasn’t their fault. I didn’t say no, or fight. I had by, not saying “no,” said “yes.” They didn’t know they were raping me.

So why have I spent years debating the validity of my trauma? Let’s take a look at the tropes for Rape again with that question in mind, using it as a checklist:

  • It’s night – Not all the time
  • The rapist sneaks up behind the unsuspecting victim, or breaks into their home  X
  • There is a struggle, often some form of violence X
  • The victim will scream for help X
  • The victim will clearly say ‘no’ at least once but usually several times X
  • The Rape happens?

If we are going off the media’s checklist for Rape, it’s clear I wasn’t raped, and yet:

  • My boyfriend was 22 and I was 14.
  • My friend’s boyfriend removed my clothes and had sex with me while I was asleep.
  • Both of them were Rape.

In my view, this sets up a fracture in the survivor’s mind, a vacuum of self because your body is screaming that you have been raped and yet it doesn’t fit the checklist, the mould. So, as nature abhors a vacuum, shame rushes in to fill it and that’s where the fallout happens.

This creates, in society’s mind, two types of rape:

1. The Unpreventable i.e.  ‘the victim did everything right, but it still happened’

2. The self-inflicted i.e.  ‘the victim was asking for it/it’s their own fault’

From this the hydra of rationale, victim-blaming is born.

In the case of women, specifically, in these kinds of situations, the questions start; toxic beliefs surface about how women should be, the judges (whether friends and family, or in court) look at a woman’s ‘character’ rather than the actual crime itself to see if, in fact, she’s a ‘slut.’ In which case, was it really rape?

It goes on and on with people questioning outfit choices—was the woman somewhere she shouldn’t be? Etc.— and it becomes so insidious, so systematic that you get situations in which authorities, i.e., police and judges, who don’t take survivors seriously, as proven in the example below;

“The victim ‘was probably as much in control of the situation as was the defendant,’ Judge G. Todd Baugh said in 2013. Baugh was giving his explanation on why he sentenced a teacher who pled guilty to raping a 14-year-old student to only 31 days in prison. Baugh later faced suspension and public censure by the Montana Supreme Court and apologized for his words.”

Or the victim gets blamed or somehow made responsible for the rape, as in this case where the FEMALE judge, took it upon herself to use it as a teaching experience, for the victim:

“If you wouldn’t have been there that night, none of this would have happened to you… I hope you look at what you’ve been through and try to take something positive out of it… You learned a lesson about friendship and you learned a lesson about vulnerability…

“Those were Judge Jacqueline Hatch’s words to a victim of sexual abuse by a police officer in 2012. The officer was not sentenced to jail time, despite his conviction. Hatch later apologized to the victim for her comments.”

This trickles down into the collective consciences of our society.

I mean, if our lawmakers, judges, police and other authorities don’t consider Rape seriously unless certain criteria are met, why should we? And then we perpetuate this plague of victim shaming. Treating the victim as a defendant, expecting them to explain ad nauseum what happened, asking why they waited so long to come forward, trying to ‘play Devil’s advocate,’ and accusing them of attention seeking are just a few examples.

I know, as a woman, I have heard,

“Text me when you get back”

“You aren’t going out like that, are you?”

“Can I walk you home?”

“Don’t go through the park at night.”

What are we saying here? We are saying don’t LET yourself be the victim, make sure you are ok.

I was explaining this to a friend the other day and I used the example of, “I don’t have to run faster than the tiger. I just have to run faster than you.” Basically, make sure you are safe, so the predator attacks the other person.

When we view Rape like this, it should surely make us realise that the entire culture around Rape and sexual violence is so fucking skewed to help the perpetrator (usually male, statistically white) not the victim/survivor. It breeds the ‘Boys will be boys’ environment in which women and girls are made to change how they dress and behave because men are just helpless and must touch if they see something they like. Which is not only infuriating for women but so insulting to men as well—and let’s not forget that Rape is about power, not sexual attraction.

This is why reflecting realities in our media is so important, because until we can start showing these incidents happening in a more realistic way to a wider group of people, then we will continue to live in a Rape culture that protects the rapists and predators.




An Ode to my Mother

This is my Mum:

Or as I still call her, with no shame and perhaps a smidge of arrested development, Mummy. As its Mothers Day here in the UK, I want to introduce you to her because she is one of life’s unsung heroes, well, I want to sing.

I saw this quote on a card a while back but it was referring to fathers but I loved it because it reminded me of our family’s sense of humour, ‘You’re the best mummy in the world, if I had another mum, I’d punch her in the face and come and find you’ There are so many things about her that, should I try to write everything down, I’d be collecting my pension before I was finished. If you have ever had a conversation with me in person and the subject of my mum has come up, I will have 100% described her to you thusly, “My mum is like the Matrix, she couldn’t be described, you have to see it for yourself”. Well, I’m nothing if not stubborn, so I thought I’d try to explain her anyway. Here are a few stories in an attempt to show you what I mean:

Protector aka Arm Bands and the Green Man.

One of my earliest memories is of being at Scartho Baths (a public swimming pool in my home town) with my mum and her friend. I’m not sure how old I was but I’m thinking pretty young, around three and as most kids that age, I loved the swimming pool but the thing I enjoyed most about it was getting out and jumping back into it (a passion my son has also inherited). We were in the deep end because back then, it was a simpler time when there weren’t any rules about where non-swimmers could and couldn’t swim. So, there we were, my mum and her friend chatting away, me safely ensconced in my arm bands, climbing out of the pool and jumping back in, when an idea formulated in my head, the idea was something like this –

‘Wouldn’t it be awesome to jump in the pool but this time, instead of keeping my arms down, I’ll raise them up.’

Toddler mastress

I think its pretty obvious that even back then, I was on the cutting edge of innovation and was so far out of the box, I wasn’t even aware of its existence.

So, there I am, all little and a bit gangly, in my cossie, wiggling my toes with excitement on the wet tiles, feeling pretty damn impressed with my completely original idea. I start to do the knee bobbing thing kids do, to make sure they remember how to jump, then I’m in the air hands up like I just don’t care. Now I’m not so sure if you have ever jumped into a pool with arm bands on while your arms are completely horizontal but the force of the water hit the inflatables tends to remove said inflatables pretty sharpish. I sank. I sank to the bottom. I still remember looking around under 8ft of water, there was a calmness to it, a silence in which my child brain very quickly figured out ‘This is how I go’.

Meanwhile on the surface, my mum had noticed pretty quickly (as mothers are want to do) that in place of her daughter were two arm bands, bobbing on the surface (when I think of this it always reminds me of cartons, were someone gets hit at speed and all that remains is their shoes, marking where they were only a few seconds ago) She looked down and saw me having a little play date with impending doom.

By this time (roughly 1.42 secs after hitting bottom) I was wondering if there was life after death, when I saw a hand reaching toward me (I like to imagine it looked like Frodo reaching for Sam) She pulled me out of the grasps of infinity and brought me back to the echoes of Scartho Baths. As I recall, she laughed at me, put my armbands back on then turned to continue her conversation with her friend. When I have challenged her about laughing at your child’s near-death experience and then returning to your conversation, she says, with great humour, ‘Well you were breathing, there was nothing to worry about’

A Friend aka Nobody Can Spell ‘the’ at 2am

Now before I begin this story, I need you to cast your mind back to the early noughties, Internet was a thing but nothing compared to what it is now and most of my homework was written by hand. That’s right I used my hand muscles to hold a pen like a cave man, scrawl my thoughts onto paper and curse Hades if I made a spelling mistake because you can’t delete ink my friend and no matter what the tippex company would have you believe, its product does not lay seamlessly on your paper, its more of a he circles saying, hey look! I fucked up!’ Anyway, I digress.

It was close to midnight and I had been slaving over some history course work, the end was finally insight, which was a relief because the topic was ‘local history’ and it was by far the least interesting subject I had studied in one of my favourite classes. So, there I am, all teenage-ie, awkward and tired, sitting on my single bed, in my bedroom (which is generously described as the box room) surrounded by posters of Christina Aguilera and Sarah Michelle Geller and I’m feeling pretty good about myself. I had almost come to the end of this hideously laborious, boring ass course work. I’m doing my final checks on the work, making sure I’ve included all the points etc when I glance over at the homework instruction sheet and I notice, it says very clearly (I think it was in bold) that it has to be handed in TYPED. I went into panic. When I say panic, it was a frozen, deer in the headlights, cold sweat, ‘I swear my stomach and throat used to be separate’ kind of panic. I didn’t know what to do.

I eventually remembered how my limbs worked and walked downstairs, into the living room, where my mum was sitting. She quickly realised that I was not the daughter who had been seen earlier that evening and enquired as to what was wrong. I explained the whole series of events and she, to her eternal credit, said, ‘We can do this, you read, I’ll type’ 

So that’s what we did, for around two hours, I read aloud my paper and my mum typed it up on our brick of a PC. My favourite part of this story is, at around 2am when we were both delusional due to lack of sleep, mum was reading a section back to me – in order to make sure we had it right (printing wasn’t cheap, or fast) and she just started to tremble. Her shoulders were silently bouncing up and down, now I don’t know about you but if I see someone trying to hold a laugh in, in this manner, I instinctively start laughing. So, we were both laughing and I had zero clue as to why. She pointed out that she had spelt ‘the’ incorrectly. In her haste to type she had spelt it ‘teh’ I still, to this day, don’t think I have laughed so hard about something, that is in no way funny but in that moment, in that state, that was the funniest shit that had ever happened and we wept, we couldn’t breathe, our faces were beetroot and we laughed, nay gauffered for what seemed like an age.

“I still, to this day, don’t think I have laughed so hard about something, that is in no way funny”


My work was handed in, as requested and on time the following day and I still laugh whenever I think of that night, or I see ‘the’ typed incorrectly.

A Safe Haven – aka You Can Have the Cardboard Box Next to Mine.

Since 19, when I left for drama school, I have lived (in various states of luxury and decay) away from my mum. She still likes to remind me though, no matter what happens, if I ever need to go back for a time, I am so welcome. She says the same for my sister – which is lucky really because this would be an awkward way to find out I’m the favourite.

Even when she has lived in places that could not, by the laws of physics, allow another adult to reside in them, she re-affirms that it is still an option

momma mastress

Mum just likes us to know, that it will always be an option. Even when she has lived in places that could not, by the laws of physics, allow another adult to reside in them, she re-affirms that it is still an option, should we ever need it. My favourite time she ever told me this was when she said, ‘Even if I am living on the streets in cardboard city, you can have the box next to mine’ I think it might be the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.

A Teacher – aka ‘You Know Your Problem…’

Some pieces of advice, are burned into your brain. You hear them, or read them and your brain explodes, it resonates so deeply. 

I had one of these moments with my mum, I was a teenager and we were arguing about something (I was a hell beast of a teenager) now my mum would take a lot of crap from me, until she didn’t and then it would turn into a verbal thunder dome. During one of these events, I was complaining about some pointless stuff and being so incredibly ungrateful towards her, when she hit me with a verbal smack down that shook me to my core, she said to me, ‘You know your problem Sam? You want EVERYTHING and are prepared to do NOTHING to get it’ It took the wind from me, I was furious because she was right. 

‘You know your problem Sam? You want EVERYTHING and are prepared to do NOTHING to get it’ It took the wind from me, I was furious because she was right. 

Momma mastress

I still remind myself of that nearly daily and I regularly thank her for it.

Unconditional Love aka It’s OK to Need Help

When I was around thirteen was the first time any mental health issues noticeably popped up, I had already attempted suicide at this age (unbeknownst to anyone) and my Mum noticed something wasn’t right. She had gotten me into counselling at my local GP, with an amazing councilor called Ian (he looked like John Malkovich’s character in Con Air, which was terrifying to me but never a kinder soul have I met.It taught me a lesson about judging people based of their appearance) during those sessions it became very clear that I was dealing with a lot and I assume he had relayed this back to my mum because one day, not long after this had come up in the session, she handed me an envelope with my head of years name on it.

(he looked like John Malkovich’s character in Con Air, which was terrifying to me but never a kinder soul have I met.It taught me a lesson about judging people based of their appearance)


Turns out that she had planned a long weekend away with the family to Butlins, so I could have some time off. That meant a lot to me, we didn’t go on holidays because we simply did not have the means, so this was a huge deal to me. For four days, nothing really mattered and it was an incredible thing to do.

Support aka You Do You

I remember my mum, sister and I were obsessed with Ally McBeal and would watch it together (I still don’t think I’m over RDJ shock departure from the show) It was while watching the show that I decided I wanted to be a lawyer, it seemed obvious to me that this was an extremely realistic, almost documentary level representation of life as a lawyer.

It was while watching the show that I decided I wanted to be a lawyer, it seemed obvious to me that this was an extremely realistic, almost documentary level representation of life as a lawyer.” 


So, when I went to college I studied law (or read law, which I think is the correct term) lots of my friends were doing the same and it seemed like the rational thing to do. My first shock came when I discovered that in the UK, you could be a solicitor or a barrister, not a lawyer – I was not happy about this, less so when I saw the wigs and gowns barristers wore. My second shock came when I realised just how boring I found the subject, there were interesting cases etc but I could not get on with literally having to learn all of it, there was no wiggle room, no creativity in it for me and I soon felt extremely trapped. Luckily, I had also chosen t study performing arts as a rest bite from my more academic studies and I actually found that that is were I wanted to be all the time, so much so that in my second year, I dropped law and psychology and did a drama A-level in a year.

I told my mum and after roughly a two second adjustment period she was thrilled for me and has continued to support all my creative endeavours because she holds value in what makes me happy and I don’t think you can get more supportive than that.

One of a kind aka Who Needs Real Words Anyway?

Lastly I’d like to share with you how unique my mum is, she has her own vocabulary, a prime example is that she calls her mobile phone a ‘Moby Dick’, she can make conversation with anybody (and she will), she finds the humor In every situation (sometimes when you wish she wouldn’t) and she has a unique sense of what skills its important to raise a child with, I could cook by the age of ten, do general house work around the same age, I knew the only reason that is justifiable to judge someone on is their choices

I knew the only reason that is justifiable to judge someone on is their choices

Mastress via momma mastress

and of course most importantly, I can get into a car when it is moving because my mum was convinced (and still is to this day) that that skill will save my life one day and if not it might come in handy on when I’m on set!

Happy Mothers day Momma, I bloody love you x

10 Things They Don’t Tell You About Being A Parent

Oh, my goodness! It’s the best. Being a parent is such a blessing. You’re going to love it!”

“Get your sleep while the baby does!”

“Make sure to enjoy every minute, they grow so fast and you can’t get that time back!”

Any of this sound familiar?

Well, if you’re a parent—or an expecting parent—I bet it does, and I’d also put money on the fact you can reel off a considerable amount more ‘tips’ about parenting.

When I say tips, I actually mean useless platitudes that people say because they still can’t believe they were duped into believing it was all going to be rainbows, unicorns farting glitter, and quirky montages of your little scamp doing cute things like golden arches while you go for a new nappy. So, instead of warning—or, rather, “informing”—expecting parents or those thinking they may want kids one day what the actual truth is, they opt for assimilating a new generation into the rose-coloured, soon-to-be-disillusioned masses.

Well, I’m about to pop some motherfucking bubbles

But before we begin, as this is my first post on parenting, let me start with something those who know md have heard me say a thousand times before—PARENT DISCLAIMER.

/ˈpɛːr(ə)nt/ /dɪsˈkleɪmə/

The act of, in a simple phrase, conveying your unconditional love for your children and how you couldn’t live without them, before proceeding to bitch about them relentlessly, so no one can say shit about it.

– mastress of none

This will come up in basically every post I write about parenting, so get familiar with the phrase and definition.

With that being said, lets get into the ten things no one will tell you before you become a parent.


This is the big one, so I wanted to get stuck straight in. The most important thing I can say here is get real fucking comfortable with feeling guilty.

You are going to feel guilt. No ifs, ands or buts about it. This is a lose/lose situation my friend, no matter what you do, at every stage of your child’s life from now until you suck your last breath. Every choice has the potential to fuck your kid up, at least that’s what your brain is going to scream at you, over and over.

Do you work? You’re going to feel that guilt that says, “I’m missing little Timmy’s ____ (enter any fucking thing here) and they are going to think I don’t love them enough.”

Are you a stay-at-home parent? You’re going to feel guilt that perhaps you are spending too much time with little Yasmin and she is never going to learn independence.

Play with your kids all the time? Guilt because, “How will they ever learn to keep themselves occupied?”

Hate playing with your kids? Guilt because “Isn’t this supposed to be a magical make-believe time of dragons and tea parties?”

For the record, it’s fully acceptable not to enjoy playing with your kin, they don’t understand how a game is supposed to be structured and will pitch a fucking tantrum the likes of which you’ve never seen should they loose AND if you think you can play video games with them to avoid this, I’ve got some unfortunate news: video games have changed since we were kids and Minecraft is THE WORST—sorry if you like it, you are wrong, IT IS THE WORST.

Sorry, I may have gotten off track for a second there… My point is simply this, the second your baby arrives, your life becomes the movie Sliding Doors and you will always think the other option is the better one.

But, newsflash, it doesn’t matter. The guilt will find you. On this we are all fucked. I’m sorry but there it is.


Ok, have you seen How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days? Don’t worry if not, it’s not that important, and I’ma catch you up real quick.

There’s a moment where Hudson’s character says, “I love you, but I don’t like you right now.” (All caught up? Yeah. I should write summaries professionally, I know).

Yeah, that. That will happen. It will happen a lot. It might not last long, but on those occasion where your precious little angel turns into the spawn of Lucifer because you didn’t cut the crusts off their sandwich, or you know they asked you to, so you did, and for some reason that was the wrong thing to do?!


Love you, not liking you a whole bunch. Don’t feel bad about this. It’s natural, and little Timmie is, quite frankly, being a dick.


Someone had to fucking say it.

Look, we’ve all got that one friend who is a liability, right? Constantly drinking, shooting their mouth off all the time, falling asleep at the weirdest times, and occasionally, after having drunk too much, soiling themselves?

Well, a baby is that friend, without the redeeming features of the witty bants. I’m sorry, but they are demanding and they are boring. Sure, they are cute, but I mean, YouTube exists if you just wanna look at cute things.

Babies are boring. Straight facts.


Get mad at biology not me.

Narcissism and impulsivity, which are part of the adult diagnostic criteria, are difficult to apply to children, who are narcissistic and impulsive by nature.”

Jennifer Kahn
(New York Times Magazine, 2012, ‘Can you call a nine-year-old a psychopath?’)

The brain isn’t fully developed until you are twenty-five. In fact, a lot of behaviours in children and adolescents are labelled as similar to sociopath/psychopathic behaviours because the frontal cortex is not full formed, which is where we develop our ability for empathy.

So, yeah. You will be negotiating homework, eating vegetables, and sorting bedtimes with someone who has zero empathy for your plight. I’m sure there is a nicer way to put it. Nicer, but no less accurate.


Up until the age of at least four, you are looking after a lemming. By that, I mean that your child has no fear, no self-preservation, no idea that you shouldn’t put one’s tongue in the fucking plug socket. Everything demands them to taste it, insert it, touch it, and stand in front of it. Keep your eyes peeled because the ingenuity of children when it comes to potential self-slaughter is just impressive. I always joke that I have kept my child alive without fail every day of his life, and the parents laugh, and the non-parents say, “Oh, don’t say that,” and that’s when I look at them and say, “You weren’t there man. You don’t know.”


Here’s a fun thing about babies: they seem to know exactly when you’ve let your guard down at night, and it is at this point that they will either stop making breathing noises, or they will let out a rasping breath akin to a death rattle.

They will do this several times a night, all while they are asleep. You will never not check. So, either you are up all night with a crying baby, or you are up all night checking that the sleeping baby is still breathing. Welcome to the land of sleep deprivation, my fellow operantly exhausted pigeon.

Not to worry though, as they get older that changes. Instead, they just refuse to go to sleep, and when they eventually do they are up every 15 minutes for a glass of water, or ‘to give you a hug,’ so you can’t ever fully relax, and at this point it feels like you were knocked unconscious and taken to some extreme psychology experiment where they test how long it takes to break someone using prolonged psychological warfare.

Seems a bit extreme?

I was being kind when I said ‘mild.’


After eighty-one hours of wanting my baby out of my womb, he finally arrived, and you know the first thought that went through my head when I saw that magical little bundle covered in my own detritus?


Don’t get me wrong, I have always understood that this was likely to happen at one point, but this was the first time I actually confronted it head on in a ‘face my mortality’ kind of way. I had just had a helpless little baby pulled out of my vagina by a doctor whose strength could match Captain America’s in that one scene with Thanos, you know that one scene with Thanos? And I just suddenly realised all at once that I would be dead one day and he would be alive without me…

And then I passed out.

Not because of the thought, but because I had been in labour for eighty-one-fucking-hours.


Yeah, you will almost instantly become obsessed with your baby’s poop, its colour and consistency.

You will talk to fellow parents about it (who you only know because you were thrown together in an antenatal class in which the only thing you have in common is that all of your lives are about to be interrupted for the next 18 years), and when you meet up with the people in your life that you actually have things in common with—on the rare occasion you can wash and dress on the same day—you will tell them, too.

They will not appreciate this, especially if you are out for a curry. Most people don’t wanna hear about your baby’s poo. You might think you don’t need to be told this.

You do.

You will forget.

You will do it anyway.


Right let’s get this clear, babies have genitals. They look like adult genitals but smaller, and baby boys will get erections from day one.

I was not expecting this and it freaked me the fuck out. I didn’t know what to do, why did my innocent little baby have a lob-on?!

It’s natural, apparently. So be prepared for that joy.

Also, just to say, vaginas look like vaginas from day one—as my brother-in-law couldn’t believe when my niece was born.


Look, you are going to get angry. So, so fucking angry.

I mean comic book anger. Hulk would run from you. You think you might actually explode with rage and you will have to keep that shit in check.

I’m not sure how to help you here. Because I don’t know how I do it. I mean, let’s get real, I’m human. I don’t always manage to keep my zen-like cool.

That was sarcasm, in case you couldn’t tell. I have no zen, no cool, no chill, and little money—that last part wasn’t strictly relevant, but as children are basically money pits, I figured it worked.


I repeat, ‘calm and consistent’ over and over again when my precious boy is saying/screaming such gems as, “I hope you die in a fire,” or “Why are you purposely trying to hurt my feelings?” at me in response to me asking him to, for example, eat his dinner (which he has been asking for every minute for the last hour), or brush his teeth.

So, there you have it.

It’s not glamourous, or pretty, and there is no rose in those glasses, but all of those things are true of being a parent. A lot of it sucks beyond the telling, but the most annoying thing? They do one cute thing, that you are 98% sure is a manipulative power play, but you fall for it anyway…

…and for that moment, everything is perfect.

my heart

Mastress of None


I’m Samantha, but all my friends call me “Sam.”

All my friends?

Jesus, that makes me sound so up my own arse, like I have a plethora of pals, a smorgasbord of sidekicks, ready for me to turn up and be the life and soul of the party. The idea of me turning up to a party is laughable and that’s before the world went all 28 Delays Later.

No, I have a handful of hombres – my god that sounds so try hard.

Let me start again.


I’m Sam. I know people.

Oh, good God no.



Sup? Absolutely not. Fuck me, why can I not start a simple God damn sentence?

To whom it may concern,

My name is Sam. I have friends, honestly, I know people. My name is also Samantha and I have a child. I also have a dog and I do the writing and the talking and sometimes I speak aloud the writing I’ve done. Poems. They are called poems.

What am I trying to achieve?

Wow, what a question. I mean, what does anybody want to achieve in their lives really? What are any of us looking for? Love, a home, someone to accept me completely for who I am, even if my second toe is longer than my big toe – it’s a sign of intelligence, Mum. God, you don’t have to keep pointing it out, you’ll give me a complex.

Oh, what am I trying to achieve by writing this?

Yeah, that makes more sense.

 I was advised to write an introduction post, kind of a ‘get to know’ kind of thing so people could get a taste of who I am. Not like a taste, you know with their tongues – eww gross, why would I even think that? I don’t want strangers licking me… well, depending on the stranger….

Sorry, tangent.

Hi, I’m Sam. I have no clue what I’m doing and I effortlessly make it look like exactly that. Which is why I so brilliantly and completely originally (it was all my idea) thought up the name, Mastress of None – fits, no?

So, welcome to my internet home place, where I can show you digital thingies on your palm pilots and Blackberries. I know tech.

I’m very excited to have you here!

Also, anxious, but my therapist tells me that excitement and anxiety are the same chemicals, we just label them differently due to context and if that is in fact true and she wasn’t just humouring me to get me out of her office, then I am SO excited, all the excited, so much so that I may have a full-blown excitement attack.

So, here we are, and I do hope you enjoy your stay.

Enjoy your stay?

Really, Sam?!