Just like a dormant volcano, women too will erupt under pressure, and that is perfectly okay.
I have a confession to make. I’m making it to you because I know you won’t judge me. Since I started writing this column months ago, you and have become girlfriends. I sometimes imagine where you’re reading this from: maybe from under the hair drier in a salon, your feet stewing in a bubbly bath, or maybe you’re waiting at your gynae’s reception. I speak to you as I would one of my girls – Pepe and Terry, Vicky or Joan. Sawa?
So, last weekend GB rocks up into the digs at 5 a.m. He’s drunk. I wouldn’t be telling you this story if he hadn’t forgotten to carry his house keys and rings me up to open for him. I hate it when he does that. I open the door, he staggers into the kitchen to heat up some food then staggers into our bedroom and throws himself on the covers. I’m disgusted. I turn on the nightlight, “It’s 5 in the morning, where the hell were you?!” He’s unresponsive. I ask the question again, this time louder, this time on my feet.
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