Sex Insurance



Whilst serving lunch to two Insurance Brokers this week, one of them asked me if I wrote erotic fiction, to which I replied that it was more of a satire/life observation/single parenting mix. On leaving the restaurant, they joked about me writing a satirical post featuring an insurance firm – and I became suddenly aware of the potential of using the insurance firm idea but combining it, not with satire, but with the earlier referenced erotica…

And so we have it: the concept of Sex Insurance.

Sex Insurance would allow you to claim against others, (or yourself if you so wished), in the event of below-par sex. This covers a whole range of circumstances, (I nearly wrote ‘circumcisions’ then…), from inadequate technique through to cheating.

Whilst this is something I have absolutely no use for, as a now re-virginised and asexual being, I wish I’d had it in place at the times of being the university bike, and when a flexible 20-something fell crotch-first onto the penis of my little boy’s dad.

Here’s how the policies would look:

First-timer cover: STDs, shocking techniques, poor hygiene, use of wrong orifice, getting caught doing a 69 by parents or grandparents, lasting less than 4 minutes, going for more than 4 hours without changing position, post-traumatic stress disorder.

Mid-rage shagger cover: STDs, secretly having friends or relatives watching from inside the wardrobe, anaphylactic shock from lubrication allergies, injuries (such as tearing of foreskin or anus), cheating* (*does not cover affairs with immediate family members).

Veteran cover: STDs, getting caught by your children, falling asleep on the job, saying the name of a woman/man at work at the point of no return, being left for a Trampoline Instructor,  continued use of the ‘too tired’ excuse for more than two years after your eldest child has left home.

Porn cover: STDs, plus ONE of the following: snapping off of the penis, broken jaw, punctured lung, paralysis from the neck down.

Optional add-on cover:
– Accidental incest
– Intentional incest
– Beastiliaty with small animals
– Beastiliaty with farm animals
– Zoonoses
– Multiple-injuries cover
– Legal cover
– Stabbing the ‘other woman/man’ in the head with a pitchfork
– Accidental death
– Disappointing ‘self-love’ sessions

Not only do I want to take this new initiative to Dragon’s Den, I want to work in the call centre for claims. This could be actual snippets of my day:

“Hello Mrs Smythers, I’m just contacting you regarding your claim for accidental sodomy, against your husband Len; do you have time to discuss the details with me today?”

“…OK and did you say that was a Friesian variety of cattle?”

“How big was the tear? Do you still have two separate holes, or just one great big one?”

The scope for work-related joy is endless here. I can’t wait until the Insurance Brokers return, and I can pitch my idea to them, over their Diavola pizzas.

So all that’s left is a name for the company…


Where there’s an aim, there’s a claim?

Honest John Thomas?

Any ideas welcomed…

I’ve just joined social media this year so any following much appreciated – you can find me on Facebook as Millionaire Waitress or Twitter as @waitressblogger


Computer says ‘Yes’!


I may have lost sleep, I may have cried into a Tiramisu on shift whilst on the phone to parliament, I may have possibly threatened the government with going to the Daily Mail…

But I have won my battle against the Tax Credits system!

And what’s more, I have MP acknowledgement that there is change to be sought in the system as a whole! Boom!

People of Britain, do not be accepting of the errors of the call staff, do not be deflated by a declined Mandatory Reconsideration application, and do not let the escalation of court action phase you in your mission of ‘hi there,  please could you get my details correct on your system?’.

Cling to your paper evidence, rugby tackle your local MP and plead your case (I have to say, mine was nothing short of excellent and very understanding) and whatever you do, DO NOT GIVE UP!

Think you have no evidence that your details have been incorrectly logged? Not the case! You can request transcripts of your calls from the tax credits office and then wave them in court! And what’s more, you can even get the audio recordings on CD – what a card to pull at a dinner party, or to blast from your open car windows on a sunny day?

The phone people are up there with tissue-paper condoms.  But they have a shit system to work with that doesn’t actually make sense, so they have to make it up as they go.  I both despair of them and feel sorry for them. The middle ground people are pants – they just say “tough tit’s, it’s your fault. Now off you trot”. The appeals people, however, are amazing – I almost expected a gift voucher for my trouble, and I was treated like Kate Middleton – it was wonderful.

You may feel like a weak, feeble mouse, up against a great big scary political bear, but don’t; the reality is that, if you are in the right, HMRC will be scared of YOU. The apparent refusal to back down is just a front. KEEP TRUCKING – YOU CAN WIN!

Now, what to do with the five stone of paperwork that has been born from a simple wrong figure on my childcare costs? I feel I should frame it but there’s too much choice and not enough wall space for it all. Start a museum of my exciting journey? I think I’ll just wipe my arse with it – it’ll be worth the paper cuts.

I prayed for Glasto tickets; they came, I prayed that I would win this case against HMRC Tax Credits; I won,  I am now praying for a book deal, very aware I have another 300,000 online followers to find before I’m noticed…

… in the meantime, I might try and take on Jeremy Hunt again, it’s a while since I tweeted him…

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Special London Ringing Tone



I’m picking at a contentious bone
Your special London ringing tone
Our son is wise to your deceit
He’ll ignore your words and watch your feet

Liar liar, my pen’s on fire
Determined my blood pressure won’t get higher
Your life so fuelled with misdirection
Our little boy ditched whilst you see to your erection
“Hello Daddy” is all he called to say
But you never told him you were going away
Just 5 days of silence whilst in “London” town
We tried you on your phone but then had to put it down
You claim to share the hymn sheet from which I’m singing
But we call and hear an international tone to be ringing
I’ll be kind to your face, but you’re a cut and dried Wanker
Last time you said Wales, when you went to Sri Lanka
I don’t use my words with intent to offend
It’s an exercise that serves to help me to mend
To not feel bitter and to let things go
To focus on the people I’m blessed to know
And the more you fuck up, the more I’m driven
To rectify the path our son has been given
To be a better mum, to show him what’s right
To be loving, considerate and not want to fight
To be fair, to be honest, and always be kind
Our boy has your eyes but I pray not your mind

I butter my bread with a child-sized knife
I have no desire for a separate life
And the reality of the week is that, whilst you’re a liar,
We got hold of tickets for Earth Wind and Fire
Your dishonesty is rooted but what the heck
I’m taking our son to see Coldplay and Beck
We’ll party at New Order, a joy you don’t know
And at least at Adele he’ll get a “Hello”
So thanks to my pen and a well-known farmer
This week ends in blessings of well-placed karma.

Glastonbury here we come.

And to top it all off I asked a sheep to smile for my photo this morning; it was most obliging and it stopped eating grass to look up and pose for me.

Battered: a novel post about a bloody good face cream


I work in a nice restaurant; and whilst the food might not be battered, my face often meets this description – thanks to late nights and burning 5.30am questions from an inquisitive five year old.

My log of ‘questions/comments that really could wait until after sunrise’:

“Mummy, when I get married my girlfriend will wear a dress like our friend Dawn.”

“Mummy, what’s one thousand and sixty million?”

“Mummy, what is at the end of space?”

“Mummy, do you know, ‘boob’ is a palindrome?”

These questions are not uttered softly so that they merge with a dream state,  they come accompanied with a repeated poking in the back and are loud and proud right in the ear hole – as if needing to be as close to your head as a phone, in order to be heard.

Team this frequent early morning call with the finishing time of a waitressing shift, and you have a face that looks like it’s been around the block a few times. That is until you allow the power of Posh Brats magical organic face creams into your home…

Men: do not switch off – this is the sort of gift that will score you huge points with your other half, mother or mother-in-law (though from my own past experience, cyanide may be a more appropriate choice of gift for the latter…).

This plug does not come requested, I simply waltzed into Macclesfield Bathery and announced “I love your shop. Please can I write about it.” I say these wonderful things simply because it’s objectively brilliant produce.

The cream: under a tenner, smells as good as Jason Lewis looks, sinks into your skin super fast and actually gets rid of spots. I have bought it for a 20 year old and a 79 year old – everyone has raved. In fact I have to hide mine as my son keeps squirting it out and smothering himself in it – which is very unsubtle, as I hear the banging of the toilet lid, followed by grunts of him climbing onto it, a series of “mmmmmmm”s and then an appearance with white blobs of missed cream all over his face and a huge waft of lavender and peppermint. “Mummy, can I borrow some of your cream?” “Erm, I think you already have, given that the entire tub is clinging onto you eyebrows and off your chin…”

Acne? It’s a rocket. I’ve had a friend try it, with great results.

This lady is a chemical cosmetic genius – all that’s needed is for one of these pots to land in an NTA goody bag and the company will have celebrity endorsements left right and centre (I’ve had one of those bags and the three-figure face skincare wasn’t a patch on this affordable organic range).

So what are we talking £80? £50? £20? A tenner…? A mere eight of her majesty’s pounds. And it lasts for ages, as well as saving your face.

It’s no skin off my nose if you buy any but let’s face it, this is spot on.

You can buy Lavender Tea Tree Clearskin Cream from and read more info on other products I’ve blogged here. Please mention this blog in any purchases – if it’s deemed a non-time-waster then I may get to rave about the shampoo too!




Goldilocks and the bear-faced cheek


As a writer of attempted positivity and feeling rich with empty pockets, I admit to needing to wait a few days before writing this post – as not to make it comprise totally of the words ‘fuck’, ‘shit’ and ‘bollocks’. Today I present an attempt at pride and dignity, through now un-gritted teeth, as I write a review of my son’s fifth birthday party…

The party theme was woodland adventure/forestry; it was beautifully set up, with lots of time clearly spent on the campfire setting. The hosts were enthusiastic and good with the kids; who were undeniably excited and happily getting involved in all the great activities. I had a good time with the children: making teddy bear shelters, pulling worms out the ground, lighting fires and eating the stew – which was very nice. Unfortunately it wasn’t the only beef…

Reading this, I would be thinking ‘pull yourself together woman, why moan about a brilliant party?!’ Well it’s a bit like a beautifully-wrapped present which is concealing a Tupperware of diarrhoea.

It transpired that this was the first party the company had done and it was being used to kick-start a business – blink and you may have missed the Facebook reference – but fear not, it was repeated throughout the party. The focus was so heavily on the business that a few risks were overlooked; long hair was rescued from close flames, by other parents ninga-rolling across the grass having spotted the potential hazard. The ‘ready, steady, run!’ was issued without thought for the cyclists who were on the path, and nearly went arse-over-tit into the pit fires and marshmallow skewers.  And one lass waved goodbye to the roof of her mouth, after launching into a portion of stew which had been scooped from the base of the metal pan. The hosts were oblivious. I also would have liked to have been given a nod when they presented the cake – managing only to leg it away from the child I was nursing a worm with, arriving sweaty and out of breath for the ‘toooo yoooouuuu!’ ending, thanks to another mother coming to find me.

So my son is now the apparent face of the company, with the overlook of not gaining my consent. Perhaps it wasn’t needed; given the party was delivered by his dad and the girl he left us for…

It was a great party, and I have no general feelings of anything other than well-wishes for the hosts, but I had no idea it was being used to boost a business venture, only the announcement they were putting on a party but not as anything other than I’d done last year: finding a space and a theme. The deceit and finding out through another parent mid-party, was a two-fisted punch in the boobs. My replacement meant no malice but having fallen crotch-first onto the father of my child at a time when trying for baby number 2 was halted by my need for a biopsy, she didn’t need to then use my son’s party to boost her business. She’s not mean – she’s just void of any awareness that I am a human being with feelings, further evidenced by her telling my son to say thank you for his presents and being with him for the cake. The only thing she said to me was to ask me to go and buy milk for the teas and coffees. I am the invisible mother. I am tough, but it hurt like a sandpaper-coated rolling pin up the arse. I wanted to twat her with the piñata stick, but instead I thanked her for the party.

So after the party, I return to working at the restaurant, go home, drink wine, eat a 500g block of mature cheddar and remember that the kids enjoyed it, and that’s what’s important; they were thankfully oblivious to the egos of the hosts. I bless this as more blog material and realise that, if my son is now paraded publicly online, then my photos of him that show more than the back of his head may as well go up too – and new Facebook and Twitter profile pictures are born.

I also remind myself that if I’m going to do any justice to the title under which I write, I cannot carry any anger about the potential financial success of my ex and his girlfriend – which is all on the back of the degree and all the courses my parents and I funded for him before he left. Life becomes rich by the look on the kid’s faces when they’re toasting marshmallows, not by the cash landing from the future bookings or local council funding. And I am thankful that at least there is a girl who cares for my son, regardless of her disrespect for me. I express gratitude that she’s not a crack Whore.

Point made, bitterness swallowed and my virtual pockets feel full again.


Single Mother Does Practical Holiday…


As I step foot into the pool area of Center Parcs, I am struck by how much I stick out from the crowd; in a sea of manicured wives wearing flattering two-pieces, here I am as the unglamorous single mother in my 9-year-old-does-swimming-gala swimsuit (which flattens what’s left of my chest) and goggles, with fungal toenails and body hair which I could plait.

The fact that I am trying to hide my bikini line by adopting the pose of a footballer facing a short-range free-kick, is spared by the ring-marks from my goggles – which are now taking away the attention: I look like someone has drawn red glasses on me whilst I’m asleep. And if it’s possible to be any less glamorous, I hurl myself down the water slides, go head first round the rapids and come up spluttering after my attempt at diving into a jet of water.

Despite the pool being fun, it’s a test for the old self-esteem, and so we move onto cycling. Hills, a 5 year old on the back and sparse bike-riding over the last 20 years led to the inevitable: saddle sore which makes me feel, and walk, like I’ve just had sex with a horse. I don’t cycle again for the next two days.

The place is great. It has a reputation of being expensive but it’s not – the swimming is free and there’s so much to explore outside of the activities – which is where your purse gets a bashing. So we do nature walks, get hours of fun out of a bubble wand and play hide and seek in the apartment. Hide and seek proves interesting in a studio apartment, but I will not be defeated here. Having ticked off the usual under-duvet and behind-the-curtain options, I up my game. I remove the contents from the largest kitchen cupboard, breathe in and wedge myself in place. This is tough – I have instant raging sciatica, (from my knees being by my ears), I can hardly breathe, and the ‘gas isolation lever’ is digging into my back to the point that I fear blood will soon make an appearance. But my efforts pay off – my son cannot find me, and I am rendered a hero when I eventually resort to barking noises and he follows my woofs and then helps pull me out to safety.

A meal out is not off the cards. Whilst there was a time I’d line up three courses and two big glasses of wine, we now share an adult Bolognese and a jug of water. £11 – including a 15% tip!! And we’re made just as welcome as everyone else.

I may not be able to venture into the spa, but watching my little boy spend ages pouring a watering can over bubble jets in the kids’ pool is just as relaxing. I see things I wouldn’t have appreciated in the days I had a career.

Finally, the kids’ disco. I have never heard a Rick Astley vs Chumbawamba remix, or a trance version of ‘Let It Go’ but luckily there was a bar to help ease my pain. The best pint I’ve had in ages – thanks to the local ale on tap. And the DJ was not only very amenable to requests but he sourced out some unknown Pharrell for my boy and we had a jolly good time bobbing away together.

So I may not have the job I used to, but with Christmas and birthday money and the saving of about £3 a week, and I’ve figured there’s our annual holiday sorted. The time together in the setting was priceless.

On the final day, I donned my swimming costume, pressed my goggles into my face and walked out onto the poolside for the last time.  And there she was: another mum, with the same swimsuit and goggles in-situ. I check her toenails – they are battered. I resist checking out her bikini line. I want to hug her – she’s up there with everything else that made this is a feel-good week.

Thank you for reading – any following on social media is much appreciated, I’m after a book deal 🙂 You can find me here on Facebook and here on Twitter.


3 for 2 on Hip Replacements: a Kick in the Private Sector


Picture Jeremy Hunt in the supermarket, spotting a deal for ‘Buy 10, get 4’ on Hummus – he would surely be up in arms over such an injustice? So why is a rip-off supermarket deal, which most people alive would deem unfair, OK to apply to the NHS? I bet certain tabloid journalists attacking the Junior Doctors’ strikes would be quick to voice their outrage at an NHS spending trend that was applied to their local supermarket shelves…

NHS Cost-cutting being of apparent importance to the Government, a 3 for 2 type offer would be a logical deal to strive for – if indeed we have to send some services to the private sector. However, what is actually happening is that full-capacity private services are being paid for up front, regardless of usage by the NHS. Perhaps not such a problem if there was surplus money and fair contracts.

Equally as obvious, I can’t imagine an MP snapping up an offer for a discount deed poll plan, offering individuals a deal on numerous name changes – a kind of ‘change your name by deed poll 4 times for just £250!’. Yet Primary Care Trusts have gone nuts for this apparent ‘spend £5m in 5 years and we’ll change your name 6 times’ offer. This offer no doubt comes with a team of branding experts who sit on endless committees to conclude that the word ‘community’ needs to be removed, only to replace it 6 months later… then decide to just opt for a simple ‘PCT’… then ‘Community Health’. I think it’s safe to answer for the whole of the country and say that I couldn’t care if my local PCT was called ‘PCT’, ‘Care Trust’, or the ‘Kim Kardashian Tit Trust’ – we just want to be well cared for. And would rather the money went to more NHS staff.

Next up is recruitment… when a new manager leads to the resignation of an entire workforce,  who have been united as a team for nearly a decade, within the space of 18 months, (as I witnessed when in the NHS) then perhaps it’s time to think about recruiting a new manager. This will be somewhat cheaper. I could give this sum to my 5 year old son: “which costs more: buying 1 or buying 15?” Perhaps we should present this to Jeremy Hunt using an analogy of buying pots of Hummus…

Onto the issue of letting cost-efficient services get destroyed for the sake of someone’s ego (the classic ‘we must change for the sake of change!’). A scheme set up to provide group exercise classes to MS and Parkinson’s Disease patients was scrapped. This was after 8 years of impressive outcome measures, great subjective feedback and undeniable cost-effectiveness, in terms of both group sessions allowing more patients to be seen each week, and also the preventative element in potentially decreasing future hospital visits (resulting from potential cardiac, continence,  and mental health referrals, to name a few). I struggle to find a humorous view point on this – it’s utterly heart-breaking.

NHS Management mistakes can be forgiven if there is some acknowledgement, reflection and some changes put in place, (which they ironically want from frontline staff), in conjunction with speaking to staff and patients. I jest about the Kim Kardashian Tit Trust but I feel like this would actually be an improvement on what we have now – if she really did run the NHS and make all the decisions, even if she did naked press releases and took selfies with ITU patients – because at least she appears to have a heart – which is so very apparently lacking in some of those in power. MPs who know that cuts are leading to people dying but still truck along in a bus of ignorance, tightly gripping onto their BUPA passes.

So neurological and mental health services are being cut and staff are being screwed – to fund pseudo private hip replacements. There is plenty of money in the NHS – it’s just being pissed up the wall of the private sector.

Thank you to everyone who shared my previous NHS post ‘Why I swapped the NHS for Waitressing‘ – if I can be a small voice for the people still working in the NHS, in the face of the whistle-blowing consequences, then I’ll feel I’ve done a little good since leaving.

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