I’ve just come home from our book club meet and I realise the enormous surge of pent up adrenaline that we ladies harbour. The children are safely tucked away in bed for the night and we go about our business of arriving at the assigned person’s house with book or kindle tucked under our arms. We politely place down the book and it is never referred to again. Instead we tear through a months worth of pent up blaahhh. And that’s all it is. More and more blah, but this time it’s adult blah and we can’t get enough of it. Every topic under the sun is discussed, it’s like we’ve been starved of any deep conversation or female company for too long and we are all trying to get our two cents worth in, to know that we, indeed, are worth something to the communal melting pot of ideas which we occasionally thinly veil as arriving from the pages of a book but mostly they are thoughts that have been laying in our minds for a good chunk of time and now we have the space to through them in the air and see where they fall. We pretend to discuss the books context but what we are really discussing is far more sinister, perverse and beautiful than a book could possibly be. We are discussing our independence, our freedom, our resentment, our sufferings, our desires, our lost thoughts, our lost libidos and our forever tired physics. We are all mums and we bring to the table not so much tales about our children or our partners but stories about us. It’s like we are discovering who we are again, we are talking about things that make us tick, sometimes about our dreams, our phobias, our ticks, our likes and dislikes. We are discovering our spirits as they have become stymied through the process of parenting, especially of young children with their boundless energy eluding us. At these meetings we become us again, independent individuals who can hold the floor for a couple of hours without interruptions and without, strangely enough, much judgement. Here’s a toast to purging with like-minded friends.