Summary
IT'S 5am on a Saturday morning and it looks like a bomb has hit our flat. Every table, chair, even the kettle, is wearing an item of clothing, making it look like guerrilla nudists have broken in, stripped everyone and run off. Bottles are lined up by the sink. I can hear sniffles coming from our spare room. In the midst of this carnage, I'm depositing teabags into mugs like any sensible British person would do in an extreme survival situation. Keep calm and carry on.
It may look like the morning after the night before. It may look like Jordan and Peter have rolled through my flat, had a barney, made up and retreated to the spare room for a blub and a cuddle. But look again, my friends. The cause of this disaster zone is no party or celebrity break-up. It is less than a foot long and weighs approximately one stone. That's right. A baby.See the full content of this document
Extract
Chitra Ramaswamy
My friend Rhona and her three-month-old boy, Emile, have been sta...
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