I went to a comedy writing class.
When I write, I know I’m not that good with the grammar, structure and flow. Honestly, I write like I’m having a chat. Which is something I’m very good at. I can analyse the shit out of anything. It is my superpower.
For my girls, I can flip any situation — potential villain to victim — but still hold space for, “Yeah, maybe that wasn’t your best moment.” There’s room for accountability and compassion. Sometimes it was just a misunderstanding. Sometimes they fucked up. We talk it through.
I love a ghup-chup. I love gossiping — not to be mean, but to really understand what’s going on with other people. Asking questions about expressions and mannerisms used.
I usually interrupt mid-story — not to steal therown spotlight, but to share something worse. Just so they know they’re safe with me. I’ve done stupider shit.
Some would argue I’m TMI. In fact, I regularly get that feedback. That’s when I know: they’re not my people.
My people see this space for what it is — safe. A place where context matters more than choice of words. Where we’re curious, not judgy.
(Okay, fine. I do judge sometimes.)
My sister bought me the comedy writing course — a really lovely gift.
I arrived: breasts sore from the emotional game my uterus was playing — Will she? Won’t she bleed?
My vagina was heavy, desperately trying to release the last dregs of eggs before menopause came for me.
Even the eggs were tired. They showed up in a thick, snotty consistency — slow, letting gravity do the job the uterus used to.
The uterus is like, Fuck you — I’m clocking out. Like a poorly paid shift worker. And I might take your clitoris with me!
I was hot, sweaty, and achy.
I walked in — and realised everyone had a QR code and I just had an email. Oh, and I was the only brown girl in the room.
Okay. Breathe.
First conversation — someone says hi.
I blurt out: “I’m hot. Are you hot?”
My face agrees and decides all my pores will open at once. Sweat beads start forming on my upper lip. I lick them — trying to reabsorb some liquid and cool myself down.
The girl turned back around.
I headed straight to the bar and knocked back water. Only after finishing the jug was I ready for socialising.
First exercise?
Write an introduction for a children’s TV show.
Fuck.
I thought: I’m in the wrong place.
I spend most of my time hoping social services don’t come and take my children — and the other half wondering what it might be like if they did.
The off-class WhatsApp school groups alone could be used as evidence against me in a court of law.
Me? Writing for children?
I mean… my own, maybe. But I am the mum that gifted my son the word “cunt” for his 11th birthday.
He wanted to know a swear word beginning with C. It was only after I shared the story with my husband that he made me aware of the word crap! I hadn’t even fucking thought of it!
So other people’s kids? They should be spared.
Then they gave us another exercise: write a stand-up skit.
Choose a mundane task and an unusual setting.
I asked if I could swear.
They said yes.
So I wrote this:
Wet Women
I have a vagina that loves its time in the spotlight.
Lights, camera, action.
Time in the spotlight includes sex and physical examinations — especially the internal kind, like smear tests.
All it takes is the faintest suggestion, and my vagina starts weeping tears of joy.
It gets a bit awkward when the topic of lube comes up — suddenly, it’s a full-blown slip and slide.
Dicks falling out.
Speculums going missing.
Recently, I had to go to pelvic floor physio.
Now, two things to remember about me:
I have no shame about my body. It’s functional. And on the whole, it works well.
I never go into situations fully prepared — it makes me overthink. I’m a great reactive decision-maker.
I arrived for my appointment having had a “ho wash” — pits, vagina, and arsehole. Not necessarily in that order.
The receptionist asked who I was there to see.
I replied, loud and proud, “The pelvic floor physio.”
She replied in a hushed voice. Like I should be embarrassed.
No shame here, love.
I get into the physio’s room and we have a quick chat.
Then she says:
“Take off your underwear, butterfly your legs, and relax. We’re going to do an internal examination.”
Immediately, I start weeping. Classic me.
She puts on gloves and reaches for the lube.
I think to myself: I could probably save the NHS some money here.
But experience has taught me — that doesn’t make them feel more comfortable.
As part of the exam, she inserts two fingers.
My body’s muscle memory kicks in — it starts gently rocking.
She looks into my eyes.
I look into hers.
And then she says:
“Okay… now squeeze.”
My mundane task was a physio appointment.
The unusual setting? My wet vagina.
This is all Covid’s fault. I’ve lost all my social skills. Yes, and my filters.
I don’t think perimenopause joining the party has helped either. But she’s here — and she doesn’t really want to go anywhere.
Sure, I could do HRT. But part of me thinks that, despite all the mental and physical bullshit, this is a kind of rebirth.
I genuinely don’t give a shit — and giving a shit costs far too much.
I loved being in a room full of women. It was full of experience and energy, with so many different stories about what had brought us there.
I wish them all the best and hope they find what they need when writing about their experiences and chosen genres.
I came in feeling nervous and sweaty — and I left feeling empowered.
Thank you, Funny Women, for creating a safe space to share.
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