You Killed Me First

by John Marrs

‘They’re Crocs, Frankie.’ I’m always willing to put myself in someone else’s shoes. But not if they’re wearing rubber crimes against couture.

Though I can’t solely blame his impression of a steam train pulling into a station for keeping me awake.

More accurately, two twelve-week-old spanners, the size of plums and with heartbeats, which were growing inside me.

I’d rather be a shot of tequila than everyone’s cup of tea.

If mine had been a gift, I’d have asked for the receipt and returned them by now.

I put my foot down – the good one –

neither child could carry a tune if I gave them a suitcase to put it in – but I’m enjoying their company.

The world is all too willing to believe a woman can’t be successful without being a bitch.

You don’t know what you’re truly capable of unless you’re pushed to the edge. Or in Ioana’s case, over it.

The many blows that followed were unnecessary, but not entirely unwarranted.

considering the back catalogue of fuck-ups to choose from

If I’d known all it would take to make me popular again was to hog-roast me, I’d have stuffed an apple in my mouth and jumped on the rotisserie grill years ago.

respond. ‘I should be grazing on the Serengeti.