delete it and ask if she’d like to hang out in town later.
TUESDAY 27 TH OCTOBER
HALF-TERM
HANNAH
Since Katie’s decided she’s in a mood with me, I’ve been concentrating on how to tell my mum. I’ve tried, I really have. But I can’t work out when to do it:
* over dinner: This casserole is lovely. The beans look like tiny little foetuses. FYI, I’m growing one of those. Foetuses, not beans .
* in the car with Lola singing in the back: Hey, Lolly, shush a minute. So, Mum, did I mention I’m pregnant? Please don’t drive into that wheelie bin. Or that postman. Or the side of that house .
* in the middle of a homework/school work/too-much-time-going-out argument: NONE OF THAT SHIT MATTERS, MOTHER! I’M PREGNANT, ALL RIGHT?
I know it sounds spineless, but I’m scared of how she’ll react.
You see, Mum’s a nurse.
At the Family Planning Clinic.
Yeah. I know.
We had the chat about the birds and the bees ages ago, with regular refreshers on the occasional car journey. I’m better educated about sex than on any subject I’m taking for GCSE, but then it’s not like I have History books lying on my kitchen table with key facts written in teen-speak the way Mum’s leaflets shout “Rubber is kinky – get dressed before you get down” and “Nothing cool about chlamydia” at me whilst I eat breakfast. It would be very hard not to have a clue in this house.
But it’s always – always – been a case of “As soon as you’re sixteen, we’ll get you an appointment.” There’s not a single part of Mum’s brain that suspects it might be a bit late by then. And the thought of me being the one to bring it up… It’s one thing talking about fictional sex, but a whole conversation of cringe if she knew I was actually doing it. A thought that’s enough to keep me away from the Clinic even on her days off – the girls on the reception gossip so badly, Mum’d know about it before I even got home.
So condoms are the only option I’ve got. You can buy them at Boots.
And there’s always the morning-after pill. Not that that went to plan.
In the back of my mind I always thought I’d go and get an abortion. Simples.
The reality? Not so simples.
This is life and death we’re talking about. I mean, I don’t think you exist until you’re born, not properly, but there is something in there and it’s something that matters. If babies in the womb didn’t count until they came out then no one would give pregnant people who smoke funny looks, or tut too loudly when they have a drink. There wouldn’t be all these rules and guidelines about what’s good for the baby if the baby didn’t matter at all.
But is it alive ? Would I be killing it?
You hear about people changing their mind outside clinics because they find out that their foetus has already got fingernails or genitals or a tattoo saying “Mum” on its arse or whatever. But it’s not like fingernails = soul. They don’t qualify you for anything other than a manicure.
I’m all for choice, but what happens when you really don’t want to choose?
AARON
Mum has taken the day off work to go shopping with me for some new clothes. She finally noticed that each of my five T-shirts is on the cusp of disintegrating, although I think the last straw was discovering a hole in the crotch of my only jeans.
After three shops Mum decides that it’s time for lunch. There’s a brief squabble when she tries to make me decide where to eat. I don’t care where we eat so long as it’s not sushi, but Mum seems to take it personally when I say this. It’s like I have to care about everything these days and today there’s a lot of things to care about. Grey socks or black? Baggy, skinny or straight leg? For some reason she wanted my opinion on where to park the car. When she pushed me on the lunch issue, I snapped that it was up to her.
We aren’t on the best of terms when our food arrives.
“They’ve given you a baked potato when you asked
TUESDAY 27 TH OCTOBER
HALF-TERM
HANNAH
Since Katie’s decided she’s in a mood with me, I’ve been concentrating on how to tell my mum. I’ve tried, I really have. But I can’t work out when to do it:
* over dinner: This casserole is lovely. The beans look like tiny little foetuses. FYI, I’m growing one of those. Foetuses, not beans .
* in the car with Lola singing in the back: Hey, Lolly, shush a minute. So, Mum, did I mention I’m pregnant? Please don’t drive into that wheelie bin. Or that postman. Or the side of that house .
* in the middle of a homework/school work/too-much-time-going-out argument: NONE OF THAT SHIT MATTERS, MOTHER! I’M PREGNANT, ALL RIGHT?
I know it sounds spineless, but I’m scared of how she’ll react.
You see, Mum’s a nurse.
At the Family Planning Clinic.
Yeah. I know.
We had the chat about the birds and the bees ages ago, with regular refreshers on the occasional car journey. I’m better educated about sex than on any subject I’m taking for GCSE, but then it’s not like I have History books lying on my kitchen table with key facts written in teen-speak the way Mum’s leaflets shout “Rubber is kinky – get dressed before you get down” and “Nothing cool about chlamydia” at me whilst I eat breakfast. It would be very hard not to have a clue in this house.
But it’s always – always – been a case of “As soon as you’re sixteen, we’ll get you an appointment.” There’s not a single part of Mum’s brain that suspects it might be a bit late by then. And the thought of me being the one to bring it up… It’s one thing talking about fictional sex, but a whole conversation of cringe if she knew I was actually doing it. A thought that’s enough to keep me away from the Clinic even on her days off – the girls on the reception gossip so badly, Mum’d know about it before I even got home.
So condoms are the only option I’ve got. You can buy them at Boots.
And there’s always the morning-after pill. Not that that went to plan.
In the back of my mind I always thought I’d go and get an abortion. Simples.
The reality? Not so simples.
This is life and death we’re talking about. I mean, I don’t think you exist until you’re born, not properly, but there is something in there and it’s something that matters. If babies in the womb didn’t count until they came out then no one would give pregnant people who smoke funny looks, or tut too loudly when they have a drink. There wouldn’t be all these rules and guidelines about what’s good for the baby if the baby didn’t matter at all.
But is it alive ? Would I be killing it?
You hear about people changing their mind outside clinics because they find out that their foetus has already got fingernails or genitals or a tattoo saying “Mum” on its arse or whatever. But it’s not like fingernails = soul. They don’t qualify you for anything other than a manicure.
I’m all for choice, but what happens when you really don’t want to choose?
AARON
Mum has taken the day off work to go shopping with me for some new clothes. She finally noticed that each of my five T-shirts is on the cusp of disintegrating, although I think the last straw was discovering a hole in the crotch of my only jeans.
After three shops Mum decides that it’s time for lunch. There’s a brief squabble when she tries to make me decide where to eat. I don’t care where we eat so long as it’s not sushi, but Mum seems to take it personally when I say this. It’s like I have to care about everything these days and today there’s a lot of things to care about. Grey socks or black? Baggy, skinny or straight leg? For some reason she wanted my opinion on where to park the car. When she pushed me on the lunch issue, I snapped that it was up to her.
We aren’t on the best of terms when our food arrives.
“They’ve given you a baked potato when you asked
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