Nothing Compares 2 U
She remembers when she used to sympathise with Sinead O’Connor. When she thought seven hours and fifteen days was something to write songs about. Now she can no longer even string a sentence together, let alone some lyrics.
She has lost count of the days she has not slept, the cups of tea and plates of food she has not finished, the times she has burst into tears for apparently no reason, or wondered what the hell she was doing and why and how and what she was thinking.
She knows she’s supposed to be able to cope, because she sees all the other mothers bouncing their little ones on their knee at Starbucks, listens as they explain in voices that are little too high how little Archie or Alfie, or Abi slept through the night last night, and is on solids and is sitting up…
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