50 shades of grey… knickers?

Married life.  Hmmmm.

In the movies it looks like sunshine, rainbows, cute fluffy bunnies and a whirlwind of happiness.

I’ve recently had my second wedding anniversary and we celebrated with a reheated dinner while hubs played the PS4.

Romantic AF.

Growing up I envisaged myself as a glamorous domestic goddess; with a gleaming house clad in Laura Ashley wallpaper and shabby chic furniture arranged as per Feng Shui, hygge or some other ridiculously boho fad.


I live in a rented shoe-box which is decked out in spew-inducing Magnolia paint and half of IKEA.

I’m about as glamorous as a steaming dog turd.

I don’t own anything from Laura Ashley; my house consists of items sourced mostly eBay and my local charity shop.

But would I change it?

No fucking way.

Our life together has been challenging to say the least and I think me and hubs forget that – we experienced years of infertility and a surprise planned-but-accidental pregnancy which resulted in us getting married when the small one was six months old.

There is no stress quite like having a baby and getting married in the space of six months.  How we got through it I don’t know, but that’s that point right there – we got through it!

We watched a programme about Einstein the other day(contain yourselves, excitement central right there) and laughed at a moment when a doctor in the early 1900’s told Mileva Marec, Einstein’s first wife that she was ‘hysterical’ and he was concerned about her melancholy.

He suggested she should ‘lay with her husband and that will remedy her psychiatric problems’.

Typical man, a shag will fix your problems  – this was the thought in the olden days; that women went bat-shit-cray-cray if they didn’t drop their drawers once in a while.

A few years back we all got a bit kinky and 50 shades of grey showed us that it was cool to be horny and BDSM was the norm.

Housewives everywhere were popping into town for the usual household shopping and foot-long dildos.

50 shades of grey knickers in my case –  my post-baby figure and lack of pennies means I live in my uber-gross washed-out grey apple-catchers.

My poor husband; surely there is no greater passion killer than your wife in horrendous pants.

We have our ups and downs but ultimately we have a good relationship; he’s my best mate and irritating as hell but he gave me my little boy and he makes me laugh.

I wish he’d put his fucking pants in the wash bin, though.



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